


white noise

by jehoney



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Connor Lives, Depression, Dry Humping, Dysfunctional Family, First Kiss, Horny Teenagers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, POV Connor, Parent-Child Relationship, Pizza Date, Platonic Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Siblings, Suicide Attempt, Trees, Ugh, anger issues, bc he deserves happiness, bc he loves books, connor is crushing god bless, connor rubs his nipples and starts moaning with delight, fb convos, for now, grinding ?, heidi hansen cockblocker extraordinaire, i genuinely think everyone's just Trying, i love zoe murphy bye, just !! boys!! havin some fun!, let's explore connors time in rehab ya, lots of profanity bc it's connor cmon, school buddy system thing, shameless references to kafka's 'the metamorphosis', slooooow buuurrrrrn, that au where they actually become friends, the only class connor likes is his ap english, will this become romantic? it's more likely than u think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: Connor Murphy's nails are chipped black and stubby, surrounded by torn strips of fingertip skin, but he still picks at them, determinedly, like they're the most interesting thing in the room, (which they are, because this is homeroom for fuck's sakes). But his nails, in all their bitten down shape, are useless for peeling at hangnails, so he brings his hand up to his mouth instead, and worries at the shredded skin with his teeth.Shit. There's a sharp tug of pain and he can taste copper on his tongue and he pulls the finger away just far enough that he can see the blood well at the base of his cuticle.At the flash of pain, the white noise deadens a little.in which connor murphy and evan hansen are buddied up for a 'pastoral support' scheme.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> i know, we only get to see a fabricated version of connor save for two scenes at the start, and i know, his mental health doesn't excuse the horrible way he treated zoe but !! he is a sad boy and i wanted to write this as in character as i could from what we see of him (:
> 
> comments and kudos greatly appreciated - thanks to canabananalism for helping me understand how the heck AP classes work !
> 
> enjoy x

Connor Murphy's got white noise inside his head.

It buzzes in the edges of his sight, low and grating, and he's grateful for the tunnel vision afforded by his hair, narrowing his view down to a patch of desk and the twist of his hands, because if he looks up to face the room the clouds might invade his eyes completely. Who knows what would happen then? He knows all too well.

Connor Murphy's nails are chipped black and stubby, surrounded by torn strips of fingertip skin, but he still picks at them, determinedly, like they're the most interesting thing in the room, (which they are, because this is homeroom for fuck's sakes). But his nails, in all their bitten down shape, are useless for peeling at hangnails, so he brings his hand up to his mouth instead, and worries at the shredded skin with his teeth.

Shit. There's a sharp tug of pain and he can taste copper on his tongue and he pulls the finger away just far enough that he can see the blood well at the base of his cuticle.

At the flash of pain, the white noise deadens a little.

But then his name is called for attendance, and he can feel all eyes burning into him, because this is the first time he's actually shown up for this useless period in a fortnight, and isn't it just a fucking miracle that Connor Murphy can do the bare minimum for once. And he can hear an edge to Mrs Green's voice, the edge he can recognise as disbelief mingled with the maybe imagined beginnings of resentment, because her job was probably so much easier without him there, and now he's fucked it by coming back. He bites at his skin, hard this time.

Connor Murphy doesn't know when he got so paranoid. Maybe it's the blunt he smoked this morning, which makes his skin antsy where it used to calm him down, now that the high lasts half the time of the prickling, buzzing anxiety.

But he barks out an affirmation of his presence (even if they can all _see_ that he's there) and fixes his gaze back to the dented desktop.

Homeroom passes in agonising static, and the force with which he wrenches open the classroom door even surprises himself, but hey, he's not about to lose his reputation anytime soon.

The only reason he even came in today was the threat from his AP English teacher that he'd be cut from the class if he didn't start showing up, and right now, with his itching skin and shredded fingertips, English is just about the only thing keeping him going, other than the hash, of course.

It was freshman year, he remembers, the first time he'd ever been called into the principal's office for anything not relating to 'aggression' or 'disruption'; instead, Miss Forbes had noticed his enthusiasm, the book he hauled around in his bag, dog-eared and well-loved, the book that got him into the only class that didn't make him want to tear out his own hair. It seems so far away, four years ago, so far that he's forgotten what that warmth in the pit of his stomach feels like. For that, he remembers, his dad bought him a set of Penguin Classics, one of the only paternal gifts he kept, despite the proud, sneering voice in his head that told him not to.

When his dad found the folded down pages, underlined sentences and notes scrawled in the margins, he yelled something about disrespect and grounded him for a week.

The hallways are too crowded, too loud, but he never has any trouble getting to his locker - groups seem to disperse as he nears them, all-black and walking with a speed that aims to intimidate, to keep people away. The locker groans in protest as he opens it, a reminder of when he punched the hinges out of shape, and he grabs the Ione book from inside, before hearing his name from down the corridor.

“Connor?”

It’s Zoe, he knows that without having to look, speaking at that measured volume so as not to alert the student body to their interaction, god forbid. In some sense of twisted satisfaction, he pretends not to have heard, forcing her to raise her voice as he picks at the tattered sticker on the inside of the locker door.

“Connor!”

“What?”

Slamming the door shut, he cocks an eyebrow at her, but is rewarded with a remarkably practised death stare.

“I have band tonight, so you’ll have to walk home, or wait until I’m done.”

The words are clipped, sharp, and jab somewhere underneath his ribs in their delivery, but once the actual words reach his brain the static is back in the edges of his vision.

“What the fuck? Can’t I drive myself and you can catch a lift with the next Louis Armstrong or whoever you play with?”

“There’s no way I’m letting you drive my car, Connor.”

And she’s gone, and the strap of his bag bears the brunt of his twisting frustration; he’d punch the lockers, if they didn’t look so sad and dented already. Fucking ace.

The thought of spending forty-five minutes listening to the mangled noise that passes for high school jazz is enough to give him intense nausea, and walking the half-hour home can be therapeutic at times, clearing the fog from his head, just not in the torrential downpour that has been the weather for the day.

Maybe if mom hadn’t found his grinder the other week, and dad confiscated his car keys by way of punishment, he wouldn’t be the senior relying on his little sister to drive him around. Maybe if his head wasn’t so scrambled, his eyes wouldn’t be burning in the middle of the corridor on the way to class. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a colossal mess.

 

* * *

 

He gets through twenty minutes of Kafka before he’s pulled out of the lesson, and for once, it’s not his fault, though it still clenches his jaw that he’s missing the only thing he cares about attending. It’s the principal’s secretary that calls him, her kitten heels clicking on the linoleum floor in Connor’s lowered field of vision as they walk, and he worries the edge of the paperback until the cover starts to fray and split. He thinks it’s what Kafka would have wanted.

Bubbles of panic well up every so often, as he hunches in the plastic chair outside of the office, panic that he’s being kicked out of the class after all, or that he’s going to have to pay to fix those stupid lockers; after five minutes of waiting, though, the secretary returns with another kid, his shoulders seeming to curl in on himself around the clumsy white cast on his forearm, and Connor’s pretty sure that they’re in this together, whatever the everloving fuck ‘this’ is. He knows the kid, in the way that knowing means having been aware of his existence for the majority of his school life, and remembering that his name is Euan, or something along those lines.

He looks absolutely terrified, though Connor’s not sure if that’s anything to do with him, because he always seems to look terrified, regardless. His cast is blank, no names scrawled in sharpie, and Connor’s chest clenches at that, and his rounded, slumped shoulders, the way he picks at the edge of the plaster obsessively. Silence settles between them, Connor peeling the plastic film from the battered corner of the book’s cover, the blue kid taking furtive glances he thinks go unnoticed, eyes darting from his mess of hair to the scuff of his boots.

“Connor, Evan, thank you for waiting.”

The principal leads them through, and Connor’s impressed by the closeness of the name he guessed, considering his utter apathy for anyone in this school. Chairs squeaking, they sit down, Evan tentatively, perched as if he could make a break for it any second. Connor pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie, sees the clean lines, and pulls them back over his hands.

“You’re not in trouble,” Principal Howard begins, and some tension sags out of Evan, but it barely makes a difference. Connor doesn’t care either way. “We’re looking to put a new pastoral support system in place,” and the school jargon makes Connor zone out almost immediately, “And part of this new system is pairing students up who might be able to offer each other some guidance.”

On the last word, his eyes appraise Connor doubtfully, and he already knows this is his mom, calling in to force the school to do something; that Evan is supposed to be the good influence on him, and not the other way around. What can he offer this nervy kid, anyway? Other than a good joint to chill him out, or some company that is sure to thoroughly isolate him from the entire student body.

“Like a—uh… Like a study buddy thing?”, Evan asks, with another furtive glance at Connor, and that may just be the first time he’s ever heard him speak. His voice is lower than expected, and he loses faith in his words as he talks, correcting himself as he messes with the edge of his cast.

“Exactly, Evan.” The principal replies, “Now, if you don’t have any questions, we’ll check back in a week to see how you’re getting on.”

And they’re released, and Connor can feel white noise at his temples from the moment he leaves the room. Connor Murphy is so crap at basic social interaction, he has to be given a friend by his school, like some kind of pick-n-mix of human relationships for the completely screwed up. Never mind the fact that the other kid is looking at him like he’s a serial killer, but that may be more to do with the way he’s digging his fingers into his forearms, unconsciously, the burn clearing the mental fog a little. His long legs mean that Evan has to hurry to keep up with him, which only adds to his skittish demeanour, and when they reach the intersection for the humanities corridor he stops to turn off.

“S-See you around, Connor?” he calls, and is rewarded with a noncommittal shrug, and Connor’s retreating back.

 

* * *

 

He’s so caught up with this fabricated friendship scheme, that he almost forgets how long he’s going to be forced to wait after school. Setting the initial reaction aside, the one telling him that he’s such an awful person that his only friend has to be forced to interact with him, the idea of not being completely alone is rather appealing. The most he talks to a person is Zoe, and even then, it almost always ends in a blazing row, and the rest of their time is spend holed up in their separate corners of the big, cold house. Evan doesn’t seem to have anyone else, which is something they have in common, and which also means he’s got no-one to snigger to about having to hang with the school psycho out of obligation.

So, by the time the end of the day rolls around, not only has he managed the miracle of sitting through every one of his classes, but he’s made some kind of peace with this new opportunity, mind running over it as he makes his way across the parking lot to Zoe’s car, and suddenly remembers. And then,

“Connor, hey!”

It’s Evan, travelling through the rain in an odd kind of half-jog, as if he wants to run but also wants to seem casual, and not be sprinting towards Connor Murphy in front of the whole exiting student body.

“Hey, Evan.” he manages, and somehow doesn’t sound completely hostile.

“I j-just thought because we’re supposed to… Well, because Mr Howard said that we should, uh, talk or whatever, sorry, um… Are you going home?”

Honestly, it’s quite impressive, the amount of fillers and different trains of thought he manages to fit into one sentence. Connor smirks.

“No, uh, Zoe’s got band so I have to wait around.”

Evan nods in acknowledgement, and Connor nods back, and now they’re stood there in the parking lot nodding at each other like the fucking Churchill dog, and a car beeps them, so they start back towards the steps. He wonders if Evan was heading home, whether he just dropped his plans to walk with him, and the selflessness of the action jars.

“So, what were you going to—“

“Do you wanna light up in the bathroom?”

It’s a rash, impulsive invite, and he immediately regrets the offer to completely corrupt this ridiculously naïve kid. At the interruption, Evan’s mouth stays open in the shape of his last word, and he fiddles with the strap on his bag. Who is Connor kidding, this guy’s probably never gotten high in his life, and judging by the anxiousness of his every action, the resultant paranoia would probably do him more harm than the high would do him good.

“Sorry, I’ve never…” he trails off, and Connor smirks, again.

“I figured. It’s cool, you don’t have to.”

And he increases his speed, because the refusal still maybe bothers him. A little.

“I could just… Maybe I can just come and hang out?”

Which is how they end up sat, side by side, against the bathroom wall, Evan watching the smoke as it curls up towards the letterbox window. For Connor, the buzz is pretty much minimal, the spliff is probably 70% tobacco, and, coupled with his tolerance, the action is one of routine, constancy, something to ease the itching before it comes back twice as strong in a matter of hours.

“No-one’s signed your cast.” He notes, as Evan picks at the plaster for the millionth time, and his eyes go wide, as if Connor’s just exposed his lack of friends to the whole world. Really, they’re in the same boat.

“Yeah, I know…”

“I mean, I’ll do it.”

And Evan’s handing him a Sharpie, with a kind of endearing reluctance, bracing himself as the block-large letters form ‘CONNOR’ along the length of his left forearm, scrawled and screwy, just like him.

“I guess no-one else can sign it now,” Connor says, and stubs out the spliff on the lino floor, “Sorry.”

But he doesn’t know if he is, because the size of the word, black and legible, like a brand, is some kind of physical evidence that neither of them are complete losers, right? And Evan seems to think the same thing, as he inspects the writing with a half-hidden smile.

“No! No, it’s uh… It’s good.” he says, “Thanks.”

And maybe, Connor thinks, maybe it could be. For once, in the inevitably doomed short term, maybe it could. Maybe it could be good.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the murphy family are less than harmonious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for self harm which is more prominent in this chapter, also for general dysfunctional families
> 
> this is gonna be such a slow burn u guys buckle up
> 
> enjoy ! x

Blame seems to be a recurrent theme in the Murphy household. If it’s not who last left the lights on upstairs, it’s who finished the milk, or who forgot to record dad’s show. And Connor doesn’t respond well to accusation.

He thinks maybe his instincts are on constant overdrive, because, try as he might (which is not very much, admittedly) his reaction is always one of primal defensiveness, fight or flight, (although there’s no chance of him flying away from anything, especially when it’s a scenario involving him being blamed.) Maybe that’s what makes him such a fucking asshole.

It’s Zoe, this evening, spilling to mom that it’s his fault they’re late home, because he lost track of time talking with Evan (the concept even sounds odd in his brain), and she had to search him out through the school, because it’s not like he has a phone or anything, that he should fucking answer when she calls. And it is his fault, he knows that, but the one good thing that’s come out of this fucking awful fortnight back at school landing him on the tail end of one of Zoe’s tirades is the straw on his pretty much perpetually broken camel’s back metaphor, so he spits back that if she wasn’t so busy making people’s ears bleed with her pitiful attempt at music, neither of them would be here in the first place.

“Oh, that’s rich, Connor, like the wrist-slitting death metal you pound through the house is any better.” She snaps, and his forearms burn, and mom is there, trying to dissolve the tension in the only insipid way she knows how.

“Connor, honey,” she holds her hands up like he’s some kind of feral animal, “Why didn’t you answer your phone when Zoe called? Maybe that would’ve helped.”

So he reaches into his pocket and slams the phone on the counter, because he was going to have to come clean about it someday. It’s not completely broken, but the glass screen is splintered and smashed and the button’s hanging on by a wire, and the microphone’s been fucked ever since he hurled it at his bedroom wall last week. The dent remains.

“Oh honey, well we’ll have to get you a new one, then.”

If this was his dad, he’d have been called an ungrateful shit at least twice by now, but somehow the forced calm in Cynthia’s voice makes him just as disgusted, because he’d rather have this proof of his own volatile violence than hide it with a shiny new iPhone 7.

“So you can get him a brand new fucking phone, but I can’t get a new amp? This is bullshit!”

“Watch your language, young lady!”

“What? He uses it all the time!” Zoe cries, and Connor has to admit that she’s right, but conceding has no place in this dispute so he instead swipes the sad device from the countertop, hauling his bag up the stairs to his room. He knows he’ll have hell to pay when his dad gets home, but the static’s getting so loud that he kind of can’t see properly, and the only thing he can do once he’s shut the door behind him is bury his face under a pillow, hoping the sensory deprivation will go some way to helping.

Sometimes, the white noise turns red, and that’s when he throws phones, punches lockers, smashes glasses. It’s so red that he scares himself. Sometimes, it’ll stay white, persistent, fizzing, until his whole worldview is obscured and he doesn’t feel a part of his own body, so he brings his knees to his chest and stares into nothing until he’s eventually dragged back into reality. And sometimes, Connor can feel the beginning of one of these times now, the white noise fades to black, and then something emptier than black, something that opens up a hole in his chest and he’ll start to cry like he doesn’t know how to stop.

It’s happening, the sobs ripping out of him like he’s a kid, buried under his pillow shield, and eventually he must calm down enough to nap, because when he wakes up an hour has passed. Time flies when you’re disassociating.

He’s numb, and not just because he slept on his arm, because of the sheer emotional exertion of the day. So, he pushes off the bed to reach for the small, metal box at the back of his underwear drawer, and shakes the silver slivers into view. He turns one over in his hand, testing the edge of it and drawing an impossibly thin red line across the tip of his index finger, and his phone goes.

He almost doesn’t look, the crushed, illuminated screen blinking at the edge of his sight, and the blade seems to vibrate in his hand, hungry to be used, but he instead throws it back into the depths of his drawer, and checks the notification.

_+1 Friend Request: Evan Hansen_

Connor laughs, despite himself.

Through the cracks in the screen, he can see the guy’s profile picture is him, standing in front of a tree, dressed like what seems to be a park ranger, hat and everything, but that seems to be one of the perhaps ten pictures on his profile. He accepts the request, hoping to be able to see more, but it stays the same, and most of them have been posted by someone called ‘Heidi Hansen’, who he can only assume is his mom, and Connor’s genuinely surprised that someone can have a Facebook profile that’s sparser than his. He mostly vents on a private Twitter, or Instagram, or avoids social media entirely, and Evan’s similar reluctance to spill his life onto the internet like everyone seems to do is comforting, even if it does mean Connor can’t find a decent picture of him anyway. He asks himself why he’s looking so hard for a picture. He stops looking.

But the Messenger box has opened up, telling him that he and Evan are friends now, as decided by a website, and should therefore chat, goddamn it. He needs a distraction. He needs something to keep him sane.

_**Connor Murphy:** hey_

_**Connor Murphy:** sorry if I made you smell of weed when you got home_

_**Evan Hansen:** My mom’s not back, don’t worry_

_**Evan Hansen:** Made me feel like a normal teenager anyway_

The capitalisation wrings a smile out of him.

_**Connor Murphy:** hanging out with me doesn’t really make you a normal teenager_

_**Evan Hansen:** Likewise_

_**Connor Murphy:** so_

_**Evan Hansen:** So?_

_**Connor Murphy:** so how did you break yr arm?_

_**Evan Hansen:** I fell out of a tree_

_**Connor Murphy:** sounds pretty fucking sad_

_**Evan Hansen:** Yeah it kind of was_

_**Evan Hansen:** No-one found me for like 10 minutes_

_**Connor Murphy:** jeez_

_**Evan Hansen:** Yeah_

_**Connor Murphy:** so u know how zoe was kicking off when she found us?_

_**Evan Hansen:** Yeah she seemed really mad, is she okay?_

_**Connor Murphy:** who cares_

_**Connor Murphy:** she’s kicked off to Cynthia and larry and now I’m in the shit_

_**Evan Hansen:** Sorry, who are Cynthia and Larry?_

_**Connor Murphy:** satan and his wife _

_**Connor Murphy:** (my parents)_

_**Evan Hansen:** Oh_

_**Connor Murphy:** Im bracing myself for being accused of corrupting u_

_**Evan Hansen:** I think I can survive_

_**Connor Murphy:** you literally can’t even climb a tree without breaking your arm_

_**Connor Murphy:** sorry_

_**Evan Hansen:** No! no it was funny_

**_Evan Hansen:_** _And true_

“Connor?”

There’s a sharp knock on the door, a formality rather than a request for entrance because the next minute it’s open and his dad’s stood there, not even changed out of his suit, just with the tie pulled loose and the top button undone.

“I want to talk to you about this afternoon.”

It always starts like this. Connor wonders why he even feigns calm anymore, when they both have patience the length of a grain of rice, and this will inevitably end in yelling and screaming. A small voice suggests that maybe by entering the conversation with the idea that it will end in conflict, he’s setting himself up for failure, but quite honestly, fuck that voice.

“Okay?” he manages, and turns his phone face down on the sheets, bringing his legs over the side of the bed so he’s sat on the edge. Larry takes up residence in his desk chair, because it’s not like this is Connor’s room or anything, and Connor’s chair, and of course, he doesn’t have to ask permission for anything.

“I think you owe Zoe an apology for making her wait so long.” He says, but cleverly disguised underneath the expression of his own opinion, is the order to go and apologise to your sister because you were spending time with the only one person who’s made you smile in the last month. His phone pings with a message alert.

But he takes it at face value, because that really pisses Larry off.

“Okay. That’s what you think.”

There’s a long, deep exhale as the threat of an argument. His phone pings again, and he’s itching to answer it, because maybe at this stage of budding friendship, ghosting Evan online could mean it’s over before it’s even begun.

“I’m not asking, Connor.”

“No, you were telling me what you think, which doesn’t happen to be the same thing as what I’m thinking.”

The phone pings for a third time.

“Will you turn that damn thing off while I’m talking to you!”

There it is, and Larry has lost his proverbial rag. Connor bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper, and flicks the phone to silent.

“You know,” he starts, eyes in his lap “If you hadn’t taken my car keys off me, I could have driven myself and this wouldn’t have ever been a problem.”

He’s treading on thin ice already, but there’s a kind of sick thrill in holding a hairdryer to it to thaw it faster.

“Don’t you dare make this my fault, young man,” Larry threatens, his voice a masterful attempt at calm, and that last phrase makes Connor’s skin crawl, “You need to understand that your actions have consequences.”

“I thought the consequences were supposed to reflect on the actions? If you don’t want me to buy weed, why the fuck did you take my car?”

And his voice is raised now, and he hates how indignant and petulant he sounds, hates the reediness of his voice, but it’s somehow easier to fight with his dad, because at least they both know where they stand.

Then, in an unprecedented action, Larry leaves.

He looks at Connor, sighs, pushes up from the creaking chair, and walks straight out of the fucking door. Like Connor’s not even worth the effort, anymore.

It takes a good minute before can even pick up his phone again, hands weirdly shaky as he reads the messages.

_**Evan Hansen:** Uh so unless you’ve been grounded or something I was thinking that maybe we could hang out somewhere that wasn’t the school bathroom or whatever just so next week we can tell Principal Howard that we actually did something you know and my mom’s working most nights so maybe we could get pizza or something one night_

_**Evan Hansen:** Sorry you know what it’s actually fine don’t worry_

_**Evan Hansen:** Forget I suggested it_

Now Connor’s hands are actually shaking as he types a reply as quickly as he can, but he’s not sure whether the offer’s been retracted by now, mentally kicking himself for leaving it so long to respond. He doesn’t even know Evan Hansen, for fuck’s sakes, other than he’s got a thing for trees, may or may not be a park ranger, definitely has some anxiety issues, and seems genuinely interested in being his friend, which seems to be enough in his current state of social deprivation.

_**Connor Murphy:** sorry satan (larry) wanted to ‘chat’_

_**Connor Murphy:** that sounds good if the offer still stands?_

There’s no reply. There’s no fucking reply and Connor checks his phone so much that he gets yelled at at the dinner table and has to shut it in a drawer when he goes back upstairs, only to take it out to charge at about 10 to find still no reply, which very nearly causes it and the wall to be reintroduced. He tells himself that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation: it being that even Evan Hansen has more important things to do than talk to Connor fucking Murphy, and, quite honestly, who can blame him. He tries to brush his teeth hard enough to drown out the voice in his head (which fails, predictably) and by the time he falls into his mess of black bedsheets he wants to cut so badly his arms itch, but he’s too exhausted to do anything but press his fingers into the skin.

It’s 23:17. His phone lights up and he reaches for it in record reaction time. The screen swims in front of his eyes.

_**Evan Hansen:** Of course yeah sorry. We can talk about it tomorrow?_

 And he’s asleep.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pizza date? pizza date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been so long coming and it's not even bc it's particularly good or long. it's also probs really rushed forgive me ehhh. enjoy connor getting a crush and heidi bc she's a sunshine and i love her x

They decide on Friday, because it’s pretty much the only day Connor’s mom won’t be down his throat about homework, and Evan’s been pulling the frustratingly polite ‘any day works for me I don’t mind’ card for so long that they’re forced to reach a decision. So, Friday it is, that they’re going to eat pizza, and find something crappy to watch on Netflix, and the whole plan is so jarringly normal to Connor because not even he and Zoe hang out like that, and the thought of someone actively wanting him in their house is the furthest from anything he’s experienced.

Because of the scenario’s rarity, Connor finds himself actually trying to not get grounded, biting his cheek when he’d usually yell back, pummelling cushions in lieu of walls (or phones), and despite the detriments of internalising everything (the fresh lines on his forearms sting) he’s in the good books. Probably the best books he’s ever been in in his whole life.

The days in between are good too, good being a loose term, used to describe anything above an utter disaster, because it’s nice to have someone to acknowledge in the corridor that isn’t a biological obligation, and every interaction he has with Evan adds something previously unknown, that is impossible to learn from his sparse Facebook profile. Maybe this is why people socialise, Connor thinks, because the observation satisfies him more than he’s willing to admit; the way he’s picking things up about the other boy, without questioning why he finds him so interesting in the first place. He knows that Evan prefers to talk online, rather than in person, because it lets him plan his words better in advance, to avoid the staggered mess that occurs when he lacks conviction in his own speech. He knows that Evan’s mom (Heidi, as discovered on his profile) is a nurse, and is studying to become a paralegal, which is why she’s never home, and Connor wishes in some twisted selfishness that Cynthia would find herself an actual occupation, to save her rattling from brunches to yoga to home like some 50’s housewife archetype. He knows that Evan’s dad isn’t around, he doesn’t know why. He knows he’s probably a terrible person for wanting that too.

The end of Friday rolls around excruciatingly slowly, and his car’s still on lockdown so they’ll have to walk, and they agree to meet at the steps at half 3. Before he gets there, though, Zoe manages to catch him in the corridor, car keys jangling in her hand.

“Are you walking home, then?” she asks, and Connor realises he hasn’t told her, or anyone, really, where he’s going.

“I’m going to a friend’s.” he replies, and her eyes narrow.

“What friend?”

It’s either genuine disbelief that he could be capable of making friends with someone, or suspicion that he’s using it as a front for something illicit, but Evan’s waiting, so he shoots out his stock answer and pushes past.

“None of your business.”

 

* * *

 

“So, uh, this is me, I guess.”

The house is smaller than Connor expected, although he also needs to take into account the unnecessary hugeness of his own, and colder too, with an empty air caused by minimal occupation that must go some way to explaining Evan’s loneliness. They dump their bags in Evan’s room, and the exposition it affords is staggering: blue papered walls, photographs of him and Heidi on the shelf, a battered old laptop on the desk, and, resting on top of it, a textbook that seems to be primarily about trees, but as soon as Connor’s grabbed his own computer out of the bag Evan ushers them downstairs, and shuts the door firmly behind them, hiding his room away again.

“Pizza, right?” Connor asks, more for something to say than need of confirmation because the other option is to pry into Evan’s evident tree thing, which seems to be a discussion for a later date.

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you?” the other boy replies, searching through a mess of cables for the one that’ll hook Connor’s laptop up to the television, because they can’t afford Netflix themselves, and the DVD collection is pretty limited to Sandra Bullock movies and the entire boxset of Scrubs.

“Always.”

He pulls up the website and orders them two large margaritas, for which Evan insists Connor take the ten dollars his mom left on the kitchen counter, even though he’s got more than enough money to pay for them both. He gets the pride thing, though, and takes it anyway.

And they try to hook up the laptop, a process considerably more difficult than first anticipated, as all of the plugs seem made for computers about a decade old, making their way through at least ten different cables in a mess that would usually tip Connor from frustration to buzzing red, but somehow, the total conviction with which Evan states that every next cable will be ‘definitely and absolutely the right one this time’ makes him smile instead, even more so when they all turn out to be wrong. When they do find the right one, Evan looks physically exhausted, and Connor’s incapable of holding in his amusement when the picture that appears on the television is the computer display rotated through 90 degrees.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, this is the worst, I—Uh, I mean it definitely worked the other week I’m sorry.” Evan’s rambling and evidently upset, pressing the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose, and without thinking, Connor pulls it away.

“No! Don’t apologise,” he doesn’t want Evan to think he’s laughing at his evident distress, but the whole scenario of nine discarded wires like limp snakes across the carpet is unreasonably amusing, and he thinks he might just be high on the company of another person, “We always have Scrubs, right?”

Slowly, the corners of Evan’s mouth tug upwards. He looks from the wires, to the TV screen, to Connor’s barely concealed smirk, only to match it, and Connor thinks this might just be the first time he’s seen him smile this wide, let alone laugh.

“We always have Scrubs.”

They watch a ridiculous number of episodes, until the sheer amount of sitcom peppiness and pizza makes him feel a little ill, but he’ll take nausea over the mental static any day. And it’s actually, genuinely fun, once he manages to stop Evan from asking if he minds every time he turns the volume up or down, and once he stops thinking about how absurdly low the mortality rate for this hospital is, and once he notices Evan’s laughter becoming less and less restrained and self-conscious, morphing into a sound that suits him. The only time his mood gets close to being dampened is when Cynthia tries to call, but, in his defence, he’s told Zoe where he is, so he switches his battered phone to silent and grabs the pizza Evan’s left over, until, eventually, the boxes lie sadly empty on the low table, and they hear someone letting themselves in.

“Evan, honey? Are you still up?”

Connor’s initial reaction is one of being caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, readying for defence, before he remembers that he’s actually been invited, and a miniscule amount of tension sags from his shoulders. She’s pretty, Evan’s mom, in a way not dampened by her evident fatigue, and the shock on her face when she sees the two of them is almost comical, eyebrows halfway up her forehead in a moment of silence before she breaks into a smile.

“Well… Are you going to introduce me?” she asks Evan, pointedly, but the kid looks like a deer in the headlights of an SUV, so Connor stands and does the honours for him.

“Connor. Murphy.”

She has to juggle and set down her bags in order to shake his awkwardly proffered hand (is this what you do with friends’ parents? Shake hands?) and he can see echoes of Evan’s own endearing ungainliness in her actions, suddenly aware of his own unbrushed mess of hair, threadbare hoodie, chipped nail varnish. She doesn’t seem to notice though, the smile still spread across her face one of genuine enthusiasm, and Connor thinks she’s just fucking relieved Evan’s finally got himself a friend, knowing that if it were his own mom she’d probably feel the same. And he’d probably be as mortified of her as Evan seems to be of Heidi, pulling at the hem of his shirt.

“So _you’re_ the Connor from the cast!” she says in realisation, and he can see Evan redden by a few shades before he nods in affirmation, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Sorry, Connor should actually be going now, Mom, cause it’s late, so…” and Evan’s ushering him upstairs before either of them can protest, in some kind of panicked sabotage of inevitable parental embarrassment, before Connor checks his phone and sees that it is actually past 10, which explains the six further missed calls flashing on his cracked screen.

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath, and his temples buzz for the first time in the evening, but he still manages to call out a “Nice to meet you, Mrs Hansen!” before Evan’s seeing him out.

“How’re you getting home?” he asks, shifting from foot to foot on the porch, “I mean, I can ask my mom to drop you or--”

“I’ll walk, it’s cool.”

Because he needs sufficient time to formulate an excuse and maybe smoke the spliff rolling around in the bottom of his bag and definitely clear some of this fuzz out of his head, which is not all white and panicky anymore, but sometimes flashing with pictures of Evan laughing which is somehow worse.

So Evan nods, and Connor nods back, and they’re doing that fucking nodding thing again—

“This was nice.” He manages and Evan nods one last time before stopping.

“Maybe… next Friday again?” he asks, and Connor tries to not let the responding smirk break his whole casual persona.

“Yeah, sweet.”

And as he rounds the corner of the block, he pulls out his phone.

**_Connor Murphy:_ ** _i’ll bring my own laptop cable next time_


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> depression can't be cured by pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for very graphic self harm (cutting and quite a bit of blood) and a lot of negative intrusive thoughts and angst///
> 
> sorry about the wait!
> 
> wanted to make it very clear in this chapter that making a friend doesn't just cure yr mental health like magic ! also I completely love zoe but i understand that she doesn't come across very well bc this is connor's pov.
> 
> more evan next chapter! (also I realise this pastoral support scheme was an unashamed plot device to bring these boys together that I have quickly abandoned and may not ever return to, and I'm kinda okay with that lmao)
> 
> enjoy! x

Every Friday. Every Friday is the same ritual: meet at the steps and take the short walk to Evan's before deciding on the takeout flavour of the night.

They never do anything more exciting than watching TV, which is fine by both of them, and it's only been three weeks but it already feels like a routine to Connor, because it helps to have some kind of structure that he actually looks forward to amidst the increasing pressure cooker of school.  
  
There's an explicit ban on college as a topic of conversation, for both of their sakes, but Connor always somehow finds himself whining somewhat pathetically about his parents, and Evan just fucking listens in a brilliant pretense of being actually interested. He's probably told him more in three Fridays than that shitty therapist got out of him from 6 weeks of rehab; maybe there's something about greasy food that loosens his tongue and breaks down his emotional walls.  
  
But there's backlash from the exposure, because as soon as he leaves the four walls of Evan's house the paranoia sets in, and the vulnerability is so alien and raw and threatening that he panics and static burns and he has to clear it away in clean red cuts. Evan could tell anyone, perpetuate the Connor Murphy freak show attraction in sharing the twisted workings of his family with that Jared kid or whoever, but the fact that his friends seem to be few and far between gives slight comfort in that respect. (It also fills Connor with a kind of selfish pride, that he's got little to no competition for Evan's attention.)  
  
Aside from the terrifying nature of opening up to someone, as well, he has to contend with the overbearing eyes of Cynthia and Larry, the latter utterly convinced, with Zoe's input, that his Friday evenings are probably spent smoking crack with his dealer, or doing something equally illegal, like being part of a criminal dogfighting gang, or drag racing through the streets (pretty hard to do without a car). He doesn't know why he can't just tell them the truth, it would be easier for everyone if he could, but this friendship thrives in privacy, and the fear that it would shrivel and die out in the open is ever present in the back of his head. Besides, who would believe the absurd pairing of the two of them without some kind of proof, which Connor is never going to give.  
  
So, Larry seems to satisfy himself with the fact that Connor's attendance is the best it's been in months, he's taking his meds, and he's not actively failing too many classes, and even if his sleeves are constantly pulled over his hands and exhaustion is stretched across his face from the constant danger of losing this one rare good thing he has, all paper evidence points to him being a functioning kid, so what difference does it make?  
  
He wishes that when he leaves the house, at 10pm every weekend, his overwhelming thought process wasn't one of running through all disastrous outcomes for this arrangement. He wishes he wasn't such a nihilistic asshole fixated on inevitable failure. He wishes he could actually fucking enjoy something for once.  
  
"See you on Monday, yeah?"  
  
It's the fourth time they've said goodbye on the porch like this, Evan hanging half out of the warmth of the house, Connor braced against the increasing cold, asking stupid questions to which he already knows the answer.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Without this, though."  
  
He raises the graffitied plaster cast. He's getting it taken off tomorrow, finally, and Connor wonders what else on his person he's going to find to fiddle with obsessively, it's become so intrinsically linked to his person. Maybe without his name plastered on his arm, they'll drift apart. Maybe he should stop being so fucking pathetic.  
  
"Well have fun while they saw that off your arm." he deadpans, and it takes Evan a second to realise and laugh, but the reaction time is still distinctly shorter than it was a month ago.  
  
"I'll try, yeah."  
  
The draft from the closing door seeps into his jacket.  
  
He sees Heidi on her drive home, and ducks his head to avoid having to wave, and it's not that he doesn't like her, because she's lovely, but he just can't face more interaction right now, slipping into suburban shadows instead.

The long walk home, which could be termed the scenic route if he were to stare at anywhere other than his feet, and if it weren't almost pitch black out, beckons, and he takes it, the pavement so familiar beneath his boots that he can navigate even with his growing headache.  
  
The long walk ends up taking an additional forty minutes, accompanied by a flood of intrusive dread at the increasing noise in his head, and his phone is fixed now so there's really no excuse for ignoring the calls from his parents other than sheer lack of will.  
  
By the time he makes it up to the front door, it's late, and some unusual hope flares up that maybe everyone's already in bed, only to be thwarted as he sees the kitchen lights on.  
  
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Dad starts, with another uselessly rhetorical question that wouldn't make a difference either way, because knowing the time can't do anything to change it.  
  
Connor's reluctant even to enter the room, because they're in that lecture stance at the breakfast table, sat side by side, hands clasped on the surface, and his head is too full to defend himself efficiently.  
  
"Can you just lay off?" he asks, and it's intended as a genuine request, not even as insolent dismissal, "It's not even late."  
  
"I don't think you're in a position to answer back, young man."  
  
Cynthia's time has come to attempt to dismiss the tension.  
  
"Where have you been?" she asks, in her faux calm, "Where have you been every Friday night?"  
  
Somehow, though, this is worse, because now he feels guilty for not telling her.  
  
"Out, okay?" he snaps, and figures if he's going stroppy, he might as well go all the way. "If it's so fucking late, can I just go to bed?"  
  
He wants to, more than anything, because his head is now pounding under the heavy sternness of his parents' glares. In all honesty, he wants to go back to Evan's, to crash on his sofa, where there's no interrogation squad waiting for him.  
  
"Watch your language." Larry warns, lowly.  
  
"Have you been meeting somebody?" his mom asks, "A dealer?"  
  
"I'm not mainlining crack, Cynthia, if that's what you're asking."  
  
"Connor!"  
  
There's a sick amusement in the reaction he's awarded.  
  
"I've been at a friend's, okay?"  
  
"What friend?"  
  
A fourth voice joins the fray, Zoe's, as she rounds the corner into the room.  
  
"Brilliant," he glares at her, "You never miss a trick."  
  
"No, no, Connor, who's your new friend?"  
  
She's sickly sarcastically sincere, leaning against the door frame in her pyjamas, and the frustration is twisting his thoughts red until he just wants to smack that smug smile off her face.  
  
"What friend, honey?" Cynthia cuts in, but his attention is on Zoe.  
  
"You know, is it really so fucking impossible to imagine I could have made friends with somebody, or are you actually just a vile bitch?" he spits, trying to expel some of the venom in his head.  
  
"That's enough, Connor!"  
  
"Who on earth could stand being your friend for more than five minutes unless you're paying them for pot?" she shoots back with hateful narrowed eyes, "You're intolerable. "  
  
And what makes it so much worse is that she's right, she's telling the truth, no matter how much he wants to ignore it, no matter how much he can pretend he doesn't see it. He's fucking intolerable, which means at some point Evan's going to realise that too.  
  
"Fuck you, Zoe!" he yells, and it's only when he feels an arm across his chest does he realise he's stepped towards her, and she's flinching, and his vision is red and blurred as he's pushed back, shaking and not quite sure what he just tried to do. Larry fists a hand in his shirt, and his voice is deadly serious.  
  
"You get to your goddamn room, Connor."  
  
"Jesus fuck--"  
  
"Now!" all three of them recoil at the force, and Connor screws up his eyes against the situation in childish denial. Eyes still closed, he stumbles down the hall; head pounding, he finds his way up the stairs, and as he goes, he almost misses hearing Larry's last comment, spoken in some mixture of exasperation and contempt.  
  
"I can't even stand to look at him."  
  
Connor can't breathe. He can't breathe and he can't see because something's fucked up in his head which makes him do things he can't remember, but he can't blame the red black white noise as something separate because it's him, it's always been him, and it always will be. Zoe's right, he's twisted and intolerable and Evan's going to realise that sooner or later, and his stomach clenches painfully at the dread of being so fucking alone again.  
  
He's so far gone that all he can do when he's in his room is sit and grip the edge of the bed like he'll fall off if he doesn't. He doesn't know how long he sits there, shoulders shuddering, but once he's recovered the motor skills he's snatching the tin out of his drawer, and emptying the glinting blades onto his sheets with shaking hands. The sharp pain makes him gasp, but it's the only way to clear the deafening noise, so he carries on drawing the lines, barely noticing the red that drips onto his jeans.  
  
When he does, though, his already shaking hand slips and where the other, thinner, straighter cuts have begun to clot, this one is jagged and deeper and won't stop bleeding.  
  
He's even managed to fuck this up too.  
  
The blood wells quickly, and when he brings his fingers to it it's like touching someone else's arm, devoid of feeling in his state of shock. Now there's red on his hand, and dripping down his arm, and when he finally stands to move to the bathroom he has to contend with a killer headrush and the fact that he feels like he's moving through syrup, every action dampened and detatched.  
  
He needs to clean this up, stop the red from spilling, but all he manages to do is to smear it on his cheeks when trying to brush away his tears, and in his clumsy reach for the toilet roll, bring a bottle of make up remover crashing into the floor.  
  
"Connor?"  
  
The voice comes from down the hall, tentative and quiet, and she can obviously hear his panicked breathing.  
  
"Piss off, Zoe," he manages, once he's recovered the power of speech, "I-I'm fine."  
  
It's a flat out lie, and now that she's reached the open door she can tell as much.  
  
"Jesus, Connor, what have you done?"  
  
He's got a wad of toilet paper to his wrist, quickly soaking through, and there's blood in the bowl of the sink, stark against the porcelain.  
  
"I can handle it."  
  
"Well you can't, because you're bleeding everywhere." she points out, helpfully, and after a moment of laboured consideration: "Let me help."  
  
Closing the door behind her, she opens the bathroom cabinet and Connor seats himself on the edge of the bath. If he had the capacity, he'd be amazed at her willingness to help him, but instead all he can do is watch as she pulls out the first aid kit.  
  
It's only when she presses the antiseptic wipe to the cut that the pain returns and he curses under his breath.  
  
"Shit."  
  
He wishes she'd let him bleed out, that she'd hit him in revenge for earlier, that she'd stop being so fucking nice when all he deserves is pain and letting out the static in a stream of scarlet, but Zoe has this infuriating, unshakable kindness that he's never been able to understand.  
  
"There." She presses a patch of gauze to his arm, but with this look in her eyes like she can't understand how on earth he can screw up so badly, and she sits back on the closed toilet lid and watches as he winds the bandage around it. He's suddenly frighteningly conscious of the mess of scars and cuts covering the pale skin, and she can't seem to take her gaze off them as he mutters out thanks.  
  
"Why do you do it?" she blurts out, and he tenses before looking up at her. She realises her mistake. "No, sorry, that was a shitty question."  
  
"Yeah, it was."  
  
"Where do you go, though?"  
  
Leaning forward, she seems desperate for some scrap of information about his life, and Connor's been through this conversation too many times to not be frustrated.  
  
"I fucking told you."  
  
"So," she says, half conspiratorial, half still to be convinced, "This friend... who is she?"  
  
"She?"  
  
"You won't tell us who you're meeting, you're being oddly secretive, you're obviously involved in some secret affair..."  
  
She's smiling, and he nearly laughs at her assumption, both that he's emotionally stable enough to be in any kind of reciprocated relationship, and that if he were it would be anything vaguely heterosexual. He thought he gave off a stronger queer freak vibe.  
  
"It's not-- I don't-- It's not romantic. We're friends." He manages, but Evan's laughing face swims into vision to undermine him, and he has to try and push it deep down into the depths of denial. It stays though, taunting him, and his wrist throbs and Zoe's looking at him expectantly and suddenly he's telling her for no reason other than the weight pulling him down from keeping it secret.  
  
"It's Evan Hansen."  
  
She blinks.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"My friend." he clarifies, and her eyebrows raise significantly, "My friend is Evan Hansen. He's like, short and he had a cast on his arm and--"  
  
"I know who he is, Connor."  
  
"Yeah, well... It's him."  
  
The moment stretches between them, and the workings of her mind are almost visible, trying to work out the incredulous nature of this news. It feels good to tell someone, Connor thinks, for a fleeting, hopeful moment before she speaks.  
  
"Why?"  
  
The question is genuine, which somehow hurts more, and he doesn't have an answer for her.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Well whatever you do, leave him out of your shit." she says, firmly. The tone throws salt into his cuts at her miserable expectations of him, but he knows why she says, knows that when it comes to it, Evan doesn't deserve to be drawn into the chaos that seems to surround him, however tempting his company is. He's done nothing to warrant Connor's burdensome emotional unloading, Zoe knows that, and suddenly all of those Fridays make him feel slightly ill and guilty.  
  
He nods.

  
She leaves.  
  
Blood seeps through the gauze and stains his fingertips. 


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping School With Your Crush Does Not Constitute "Keeping Him Out Of Your Shit", Connor Murphy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was an absolute Bitch to write bc I just want to make Connor's thought process and characterisation believable UGH
> 
> also disclaimer for talk of suicide and drug use and shameless buying into the for forever thing wahey
> 
> the slow burn isn't rlly slow anymore? bc I'm impatient and I rush my plots ? enjoy x

Reaching a shakey resolution with Zoe has its benefits, namely the return of his car keys and some of his freedom through immense negotiation, as long as she can testify he's not spending his Friday nights deep in the town's criminal underworld. In return, she makes him buy his own nail varnish to avoid stealing hers, turn his music down to let her practise at least twice a week, and stay as far away from her at school as possible, as if physical distance can deny blood relation. Whatever. Connor's got his car back.   
  
Driving to school on Monday morning is ridiculously liberating, and he's decided he's going to pull back from Evan, to avoid him becoming a dumping ground for all of his mental angst, no matter how nice it was to open up to someone. This plan proves quite difficult, however, when Evan's waiting for him at his locker before homeroom, and he's got that stupidly endearing nervous smile on his face.   
  
"I'm free!" he jokes, lifting his newly bare arm, which looks oddly small without the cast, and Connor can't help but smirk at him, despite his attempt at distancing himself.  
  
"Looks good." he says, turning into his locker, and the curtness seems to make Evan curl in on himself slightly, this reaction in turn clenching in Connor's chest.   
  
The shorter boy tries again, though, tightening and loosening the strap of his rucksack compulsively, "Did you, uh-- did you have a good weekend?"  
  
"Yeah," Connor lies, and as he reaches into the space his left sleeve pulls up to expose the white bandage around his wrist. He feels Evan's gaze on it, and tugs the ripped hole in the fabric over his thumb to cover it. Zoe's words echo in his head. Don't drag him into your shit.  
  
"I got my car back." He attempts to change the subject.   
  
"Oh, good..." Evan seems heartened at the slight elaboration, but he's still got his eye on Connor's arm, brows drawn in concern, "What did you...?"  
  
He wants to tell him, wants to have a Friday night style outpouring about his parents and his arm and the noise in his head, but Evan doesn't deserve being subjected to all that at 9am on a Monday morning, so he shuts his locker and responds with what he hopes is finality.   
  
"It's nothing."  
  
But as he begins to walk to homeroom, Evan follows, unconvinced and heart-rendingly determined.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asks - softly, because he knows perfectly how much Connor likes to stay out of the stream of high school gossip, and he doesn't want to pull the attention of everyone in the corridor. Connor feels terrible about continuing to walk, Evan talking to his back, until he remembers that it's for his own good, that the shorter boy is better off not knowing all of Connor's pathetic thoughts.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But, the bandage?"  
  
This warrants a turn, and a hand placed on Evan's shoulder for assurance.  
  
"It doesn't matter." he lies, again, frustration seeping into the edges of his voice because how the fuck is he supposed to protect Evan from his personal shitstorm if the other boy is so infuriatingly interested. He nods, and he's blinking about hundred times per second, like he's trying to stop himself from the following word spilling out of his mouth.   
  
"But--"  
  
"Just stay out of my shit, Evan!"  
  
It's about twenty times more forceful than he intends, forceful enough to stop Evan in his tracks as Connor stalks away, shoulders tensed and tearing shreds off the strap of his bag. It's for his own good, he tells himself, trying to keep Zoe's logic in his head when all he wants to do is run back and apologise.   
  
If he's holding back for Evan's sake, why the fuck does he feel so awful for leaving him in the corridor like that, bereft and forlorn? Is he supposed to go back to letting his feelings fester inside him after a refreshing month of letting them air?  
  
Not even AP English can raise his spirits. They're still doing Kafka, and the picking apart of language is therapeutic, a kind of controlled literary destruction in order to find meaning that at least stops him from picking at the wound on his wrist, but the content is beginning to get a bit too close to home, and when the topic moves to the whole metaphor of Gregor's mental illness turning him into a giant fucking insect he very nearly has to up and leave. That's what it's done to him, however many years of suppressing and internalising, it's turned him into something stunted, but the past month has been bringing him closer to feeling human than anything else he's tried. Not that he's been trying particularly hard.   
  
And he knows Evan's got his own shit, that he's got depths his stuttering mouth only lets him share in stops and starts, pulled out of him after hours of built up trust, but is the solution really for them both to degrade in solitude out of a twisted sense of over-imposition?   
  
Jesus. He's starting to sound like Kafka.  
  
But in the opposite corner is Zoe again, and he's still amazed that her opinions have taken such deep root in his brain, telling him that he needs to learn to deal with his own mess, that Evan can't solve all of his problems but even if he can't and even if he doesn't have anything to offer and even if he can't bend Connor's mind to being normal he's there and Connor likes him, and isn't that enough?  
  
And Connor's forced to face just how much he likes him, and whether that like is based on his role as an emotional sounding board, and to what extent he's being utterly fucking selfish by throwing out Zoe's advice, but then he starts thinking about Evan laughing (because that's where it always seems to start and finish) and the way his face lights up when he starts to talk about the stupid stuff that he likes, like his mom, and all those Game of Thrones fan theories, and the fucking trees, those trees that can almost completely take away his stammer like Connor wishes he could, and he knows (or he thinks he knows) that maybe this attraction isn't completely self serving after all. And when he's snapped back into the classroom by Mrs Forbes, he's also forced to face that he's just been daydreaming in class. About Evan fucking Hansen and his fucking trees.  
  
He has two options. Option one is to take Zoe's advice, to listen to the corner of his brain telling him that Evan is better off without his newly constant venting, that it'd benefit them both somehow to pull apart and take away each other's support. Option two is selfish, and petulant, and nearly completely erases all need for a choice altogether, because by lunchtime Connor's settled on it, and it involves Evan, a disregard for authority, and a car.  
  
"What do you have after lunch?"  
  
He slides in beside Evan in the cafeteria, he's probably the only senior who still eats from there anyway, and causes him to jump about half a foot off the chair.   
  
"Connor? What--"  
  
"Math, right?"  
  
He'd thought that the initial shock would wear off, but the shorter boy's still looking at him with the mixture of alarm and fear that he hasn't seen in reaction to him in weeks, but is not altogether alien, because he's still been putting up with it for pretty much his entire school life. It cramps his chest that his actions that morning could have brought them back to square one, so he tries his best to soften his expression and let Evan speak, which he does, beginning forcefully before amending his delivery.  
  
"You can't just-- Sorry, I just thought you told me to, uh, stay out of your shit."  
  
Connor wishes Evan had the capacity to follow through with his initial statement, because the confrontation is so much easier to deal with than this compliance to his every changing mood. He wants to be fought, because at least then he'd know that Evan wants him around enough to do something about it, but instead he has to think that maybe accepting his twisted attempt at distancing acts as some kind of proof of that too.  
  
He takes a deep breath and tries to explain, picking black flakes from his nails.  
  
"Well, I only kind of said that because you don't deserve to be dragged into my fucking mess," and Evan opens his mouth as if to protest, "but I guess I'm just selfish or something because I actually just want to be around you anyway."  
  
It's a weight off his shoulders, the admittance, and the last statement comes out in a spill of mumbles, but he knows Evan's heard it from the resounding silence he's met with. If he could bring himself to lift his gaze from his hands, he could gauge his reaction, but instead all he manages is to destroy his already torn up fingertips.  
  
"You're not..." Evan starts, and the pause isn't the halting break that usually characterises his speech, but something softer, that trails off as his face flushes. He sets down his sandwich, and takes a somewhat resigned breath. "I have double math."  
  
Connor allows himself a smile, relief filling him as he finally lifts his head to look at the boy bedside him. Their eyes meet briefly before Evan's flicker downwards again.  
  
"Fuck math." Connor states simply. He nudges Evan with an elbow. "Let's go."  
  
It's been too long since he last bunked off, and ever since the idea crossed his mind his skin has been itching to get the fuck out of this building, now that he has the wheels to do so. And the thought of Evan, unassuming, anxious Evan, taking what must be his first unauthorised absence with Connor there makes him weirdly excited.  
  
"Go?" he asks, like he has no concept of the notion of truanting, with an expression of such genuine ignorance that Connor rolls his eyes.   
  
"Yes," he hisses, "You and me, let's get the fuck outta here."  
  
And Evan takes a look around the cafeteria like there are spies waiting to ambush their plans at the nearest second, like the moral dilemma is almost to much for him.   
  
"Where?" he replies, finally, with a resigned tone that Connor takes as a victory. He pushes himself up from the table, fixing the other boy with a smile.  
  
"Anywhere. You decide."

 

* * *

  
Evan picks Ellison State Park, which he says is where he did his park ranger thing over the summer, and apparently also developed his thing for trees (and falling out of them) and Connor doubts it's going to be quite as pleasant in the cold October wind, but he did let him decide. It's, again, another part of Evan he's allowed a glimpse into, and it's a hell of a lot better than the 7/11 parking lot he'd usually end up in.  
  
The general air of anxiety surrounding Evan is heightened tenfold as they walk past the office and out of the doors, despite the fact that they just look like two seniors going to grab some lunch, and it's so inexplicably amusing the way he's treating this as a federal crime. As they make their way to Connor's car, his skin starts to crawl for a joint, in muscle memory associated with every other time he's bunked off, but it's too cold to keep the window open, and he's not about to hotbox Evan and simultaneously get his car taken off him yet again, so he figures he'll wait until they get there.  
  
The drive passes in companionable silence. Town fades to field which fades to trees, the cold autumn light warmed by the turning leaves into some patchwork of red and gold, and Connor remembers why he likes driving, because it forces him to actually look at what's around him, when his instinct is to always to block it out.   
  
He glances sideways, hoping that Evan's seeing what he's seeing, but instead he's got his bottom lip pulled into is mouth, worrying it with the same intensity that fixes his gaze to his lap.  
  
"I mean, you really don't have to worry about skipping for one afternoon, you know." he says, because this trip is going to be absolutely no fun at all if Evan spends the whole time stressing, but the boy just gives a small, hollow kind of laugh and moves his view out of the window, flicking across the moving landscape.  
  
"It's not..." he starts, scrunches his eyes in frustration, exhales, tries again, "What you did this morning, you, uh... you can't just do that."  
  
The tone is nearly as devoid of force as possible, but instinct of criticism still makes Connor's hands clamp around the steering wheel, defensiveness obscuring his vision because he changed his mind, and isn't he allowed to change his mind? It doesn't even matter that Evan's just telling him what he's been telling himself, he can't control the rash reaction of the noise in his head.  
  
"Do what?"   
  
He nearly snaps, but he's forced to overwhelm his reflex with the voice that reminds him this is Evan, not Zoe, or Larry, or Cynthia, this is Evan who he admittedly and abruptly ditched, before inviting him out again on a truant road trip. He's not in a very strong position here.  
  
Luckily, Evan can't see Connor's grip on the wheel, and he really doesn't want him to, for fear that it'll jolt him back into silence, so he works on turning the volume of his reasoning up loud enough to drown out the static. Right now, Evan is his reasoning.   
  
"You can't... you can't just brush me off like that because you think you're a burden or something because-- sorry, because it actually kind of really fucks me around."  
  
The words fall out of his mouth and fill the car, and Connor knows they're right because they're not jagged, and on the attack, but something honest and necessary. Evan continues, and his voice wavers, and Connor can't tell if he's shaking from the way he's angled but he just might be.   
  
"Because you're like the only person I can actually talk to and... and... I'm m-messed up as well so you've got no right to decide what happens with us just because you think _I_ think you're a burden... which I don't."  
  
It's the first time in a long time Connor's made the effort to control his reaction, and it's fucking hard, to loosen his white grip on the wheel, to listen to what's coming out of Evan's mouth without seeing every word as a goad for him to lash out, and in the process of it he begins to actually hear what the boy behind him has just said.  
  
Evan needs him. Evan needs him and doesn't think he's a weight dragging him down, and if they're both leaning on each other that means that neither of them can topple over, right? They can find some kind of balance.  
  
"Sorry," he says, and it's all he can manage because the buzz of doubt never really goes away, lingering like the underlying roar of the car engine, stunting his speech.   
  
And Evan doesn't seem to be doing too well with communication after that mammoth outpouring, because he directs his "Thanks," out of the window, and nods at the track leading into the forest. "This is the turning."  


* * *

  
  
Connor doesn't know shit about the legalities of smoking pot in a national park, and doesn't care much for them either, because as beautiful as the changing canopy of leaves is, he kind of feels the weight of the branches bearing down, the tension from the car following outside and dispersing into the air, and he needs something, soon.  
  
With a kind of ease rare for him, Evan leads the way, and there's a realisation that accompanies the small smile on his face that this is his ground, his territory, and Connor's just a guest. And this ease brims over into enthusiasm and before either of them know it, he's talking about the history of the trees, the rings that mark their private histories, locked away under bark. Connor can't help but listen, and smile and nod, and wish that he has something he's equally as interested in, not counting the sad, weird books he reads, because who wants to hear about that? But the trees, they connect you to something deeper, reaching into the depths of darkness in a way that makes him feel like he's not the only thing that lives half hanging in a void.  
  
But his fingers still fidget and he has to keep looking at Evan to keep from noticing the dense ceiling blocking out most of the light (not that being forced to look at Evan is a problem), and the trees keep dripping on him and he hopes there's an open space somewhere soon so he can shake off this claustrophobia.  
  
His prayers are answered, or Evan reads his mind (one of the two) because after a few more minutes the forest stops abruptly, and they're stood at the brink of a sweeping field, and something in Connor's chest lifts when he sees the way Evan's eyes drink in the sight.  
  
"It's fucking beautiful."  
  
The curse seems oddly dangerous coming from the mildest boy on the planet, and the lifted thing in Connor's chest does a little flip.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
And it is. Even in the weak sunshine, grey clouds threatening the clear sky, the trees over the other side of the grass are frozen in their perpetual transformation, some still clinging to shreds of green, others in blazing, fiery glory. The feeling, too, of sudden openness is as beautiful as the sight, and Connor relishes it, breathing deeply in that way reserved only for clean countryside air.   
  
There's a bench down the way, the dedication worn down, condemning the recipient to eternal anonymity, and they sit, knee to knee and just... take in the view.  
  
"You want some?" Connor finally asks, and he's pulled out the spliff from his pocket, expecting the same rabbit-in-the- headlights rejection as the first time, but Evan's drawn some strength from the forest because he shrugs.  
  
"Why not?" he asks, with a glint in his smile, and watches as Connor holds the spliff between his lips and lights up, but not before his characteristic worry makes a feature, "You're going to be okay driving us back, right?"  
  
"Of course."   
  
He doesn't tell him he's learned to do everything in life whilst high, in five years of practise. He doesn't tell him that he's more often stoned than sober, because that even sounds worrying to himself. He just takes the first drag and lets the warmth flow to the depths of his ribcage and the top of his head, holding it as long as he can before expelling the smoke, wrung dry of any rush.   
  
If the blade cuts cleanly through the white noise, the weed smoothes out the fizzing edges into a film, soft and manageable, the only problem being the constant supply needed given his stale, built up tolerance.   
  
Evan, though, is fresh, and, after the sputtering cough of his first inhale, followed by a second, only marginally more successful attempt, he's already got a stupid smile spreading across his face. He jokes that it tastes terrible, and Connor agrees, and it's like that time with the TV cables, they just look at each other until smiles break into laughter, Evan's brought about by some quality pot, Connor's brought about by the way Evan's eyes crinkle at the corners, mirroring the pull of his cheeks.  
  
Smoking alone is an expensive, unhealthy coping mechanism. Smoking with Evan is no less unhealthy, but something about the vastness of the sky, stretching till forever, staves off the itching come down, prolonging the middle phase of heavy limbed meditation. Open, clean air is sullied by their threads of smoke, that curl into the treeline, and the quiet is so blissfull, both internally and externally, crawling by for a period of time only determined by the movement of the shadows on the path.   
  
The laughter has faded, and Evan's so quiet beside him, he could very well have fallen asleep, but Connor talks anyway, because the smoke's loosened his tongue.  
  
"You know..." He speaks to the horizon, but the reply comes from his left hand side.   
  
"Mmh?"  
  
"I pushed you away this morning because most of the time I feel like everyone would be better off without me."  
  
The admissal doesn't feel good, exactly, but it's cathartic, it needs to be said. He's been prised open by the horizon, by Evan, and he doesn't know how to shut himself off again just yet. Or if he wants to.   
  
Silence. Silence, and a hand over his own, the other pointing to the tallest, proudest tree on the other shore of the field. Fingers tangle together.   
  
"I tried to kill myself by jumping out of that tree."  
  
The weight of the confession is undeniable by the audible exhale in Evan's voice, the way his hand tenses at the words.   
  
"You...?"  
  
And suddenly it makes sense: the cast, the desperate, yearning isolation, and he can almost see the leaves of the stark tower in their summer colours, and on the ground, far across the rippling grass, a boy with a crumpled arm.   
  
Every raised line on his skin stings. The bottom drops out of his stomach. He had no idea.  
  
"Yeah. I guess I just wanted to see if anyone would find me, you know? I-If they'd care."  
  
Connor looks over, but Evan's studying their joined hands like the chipped black thumbnail is the most interesting thing he's seen in his life, face drawn downwards, mouth quivering. He wishes he could say something. He wants tell him every tiny thing that stops him from opening his wrists when the static screams at him to. How is he supposed to convince Evan that life is worth living, when most of the time he doesn't believe it himself?  
  
"Fuck, Evan."  
  
Eloquent, barely audible and entirely unhelpful. Nice going, Murphy.  
  
"So, uh," the voice wavers, but Evan keeps taking, even when he has to reach up to wipe away tears, "If you think you're too m-messed up or whatever to be friends with me, you've got some competition."  
  
He laughs, breathy and dry, tilts head back, and the way the afternoon light catches his profile illuminates the wetness on his cheeks. Connor isn't really capable of speech, settling for watching, but Evan's not finished.   
  
"But I think... that the things I like about you outweigh however messed up you are."  
  
It's ridiculous, the impact of one word on the space within his chest, lifting it almost into his throat and he has to cough to cover the suddenness of the reaction. Real fucking smooth. The only way he knows how to respond is a nervous laugh, because Evan fucking likes him, and the cognitive process of understanding that makes him blurt out:  
  
"For someone who hurled himself out of a tree, you're ridiculously optimistic."  
  
There's a flash of panic, like in that first message conversation, that he's gone too far, and he's even not sure to what extent he's joking given the seeming impossibility of anyone to like his own screwed up self, but Evan's smiling, the last dampness drying on his cheeks.  
  
"I don't think anyone's ever called me optimistic in my life." he admits.  
  
In any other split second moment, Connor would know how he feels. He'd know his place as inverted pessimist, as everyone's resident stormcloud. He'd know the bleakness that rolls off him, sickly and tainting everything he touches. He'd know that the noise at the edges of his sight is too loud to allow hope.  
  
But now, Evan's looking at him with a kind of terrified openness that he recognises just as well, with a smile that loves and fears this thrill of exposure, and they're both too vulnerable in a too open field under a too wide sky to not pull together.  
  
So they pull together. And Connor leans forward with inexplicable boldness, seeking something that he finds in the warm pressure of Evan's lips against his own.   
  
There are no fireworks. Birds don't strike up a chorus. The sky just seems less terrifying in its infinity; the cold rush of the wind tempered by their closeness. Their hands still wind together between them and Evan's movements are hesitant, afraid of messing up, like he thinks Connor's any more experienced than him, but it doesn't matter, because Connor's kissing Evan fucking Hansen, and soon the hesitancy melts away and it's so good.   
  
Maybe it's the pot, soaking back into the bloodstream after everything, but Evan's started smiling as they slide their mouths together, and he tastes like smoke and apples, and his thumb's rubbing the back of Connor's hand because would he even be Evan Hansen without an unconscious action to busy his hands?  
  
And Connor has no fucking idea what this means when they break apart, when they inevitably sever this unspoken agreement made in lips, when they're forced to discuss, to talk, something equally likely to ruin this spontaneous harmony.  
  
Maybe it's all too much, too soon, and Evan decides Connor is actually too much work in the end and that's that. Maybe he's got the signals completely wrong, and Evan's just been playing along out of pity.  
  
Maybe, and this is what actually happens when they break apart with dumb, closed mouth smirks, nothing changes. The shadows still lie the same on the path. The honouree of the bench remains nameless. They carry on holding hands.   
  
And far across the spread of grass, beyond the dip in land and the newly meaningful tree, above the changing canopy of October, as far as the eye can see: the sky stretches on for forever.


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys get warn and medium weight, connor gets hot and heavy on his lonesome, zoe is oddly invested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!!! I've had my big phat final year exams !!
> 
> there's a Lot happening in this chapter. if yr not a fan of some healthy grinding, jerking off or the like then just skip to like ... a third of the way down or smthg 
> 
> (also if u think they're moving a bit fast then.. sorry but no)
> 
> I love my boys?
> 
> enjoy x

It's not so much the weed that threatens to impede Connor's driving, as they drag themselves back into civilisation, but the odd swooping sensation continually in the pit of his stomach, intensifying whenever he looks over at Evan on the passenger side.  
  
They're both smiling, small, furtive, smiles, and the drumming of Connor's fingers on the wheel is for once out of some bubbling energy, not anxious tension.  
  
He wants to reach over and kiss Evan, kiss him again and again because that once on the bench, and the second pressed up against the car are horribly unsatisfying and completely fulfilling at the same time.  
  
He thinks that would probably be a bad idea. He thinks he'd probably crash the car.  
  
For once, Connor Murphy's head isn't buzzing static, because it's too full of everything else: the softness of Evan's parted lips, the way his hands instinctively clutched the front of his hoodie, and it's going to burn out pretty soon, but this period of giddiness is refreshingly freeing.  
  
It's not going to last, it never does. He thinks about this morning, about promising to keep Evan out of his mess only to end up kissing him in a forest. (Connor's never been very good at figuring out what he's feeling.)  
  
The swinging from the highest heights to sickening lows is inevitable, exacerbated by the pot and paranoia, but for now it's so good to ride it while it lasts, feel the fizzing shared secrecy between them.  
  
So Connor doesn't think about later, doesn't think about wider implications or shifting relationship dynamics, because he's having a hard time functioning anyway, just from the surface level of what's happened.  
  
And the more he tries to focus on the overhanging branches, the fading light through the windscreen, the more it all ends up circling back around to Evan, his facts about the fucking trees, and the little glint in his eye when he saw Connor was interested, and the fact he wanted Connor to be interested in the first place, and it's all a bit new and overwhelming, the interest being shown in him by a stoned, smiling Evan Hansen that steals glances at him across the car.  
  
He wants to invite him back to his, reach some kind of satisfaction impossible to reach in forest car parks, but Cynthia's home today, doing what little cleaning hasn't been done by the cleaner already, and that's an incredibly bad idea, not counting the fact that theyve only been 'more than friends' for approximately an hour, and he has no idea what's too fast for this sort of thing. So, with reluctance, he steers his way to Evan's street.  
  
He pulls up on the curb, because walking Evan to the door is the perfect excuse to prolong a goodbye for as long as possible, no matter how unnecessary and rom-com vomitworthy it seems.  
  
"Y-You don't have to..." Evan begins, but it's not his usual trademark refusal, because something about the way he's reddening and biting back his smile makes Connor think he doesn't want to refuse.  
  
"It's cool." Is what he manages in response and Evan lets out a soft "Yeah." and the road is too short by far because the next thing they know they're at Evan's door, shifting from foot to foot on the step, searching for something to say.  
  
"How did you enjoy bunking off, Bueller?" he asks, and Evan laughs, a short, breathy laugh that creases the corners of his red-rimmed eyes.  
  
"Definitely worth it."  
  
It's probably the most certain thing he's ever heard him say, no tripping over his words, and Connor doesn't know if it's because of the weed or the newly shifted something between them, but he runs with the boldness and leans in to kiss him goodbye. This kiss shorter than the first two, and chaster, but Evan still inhales softly in surprise, hands coming up to rest on Connor's chest to steady himself slightly.  
  
When they pull apart, the hands stay there, one fiddling with the drawstring of the threadbare hoodie so instinctively that something jumps in Connor's stomach, but all too soon the warm pressure is lifted.  
  
"See you tomorrow." Evan smiles, and fumbles a bit with his house keys before letting himself in, and Connor just stands there on the porch for a good five seconds like a fucking creep because he can still feel Evan's fingers tapping on his chest and any of the chill he pretended to have or was afforded to him by the weed has completely evaporated leaving him kind of jumpy at the fact that he's just kissed Evan Hansen three times in the course of two hours.  
  
Eventually he gets moving back to the car, but he hasn't even reached the sidewalk before Evan's front door is thrown open again, and he turns to look back, only to have to brace himself for the hands cupping his face, and the hot, eager, mouth on his own, and he's got a slightly giddy, quite stoned Evan snogging him in the middle of the street. When they separate this time, the hands don't let go, but grip his shoulders, with the same nervous intensity that his words carry.  
  
"Come inside? Sorry, I mean, you don't have to if you don't want-- And if it's too fast or something that's fine-- I just... Come in-- upstairs? Come upstairs?"  
  
Connor's nodding before he's even finished but Evan's kind of screwed his eyes closed so when he stops talking and opens them he sees Connor smiling so wide that it strains out of practise facial muscles, and they find their way back to the door, and up the stairs inside, and from where he has his hand in the small of the other boy's back he can feel the heat of his skin through his sweater which is all kinds of overwhelming.  
  
They don't even need to talk; Evan closes the bedroom door behind them and Connor perches himself on the edge of the bed and momentarily forgets a large part of the reason why they're there, so caught up is he by the fragments of life littered across the room that he's seen pitifully little of in the weeks that he's been coming round.  
  
There's a tee and pyjama bottoms strewn on the sheets that Evan stuffs hastily under the pillow and another different book about trees (unsustainable deforestation to be exact) on the nightstand, but before Connor can snoop any further Evan's sat down next to him and there's something delicious about the enthusiasm with which he kisses.  
  
Before too long Connor's matching that eagerness, and they're pressed together along the whole length of their thighs, the contact points and hands on chests, one tangled in his hair, warm and grounding Connor from floating out of the window or whatever other metaphor he can come up with for what he's feeling. He licks the seam of Evan's mouth, the hand in his hair tightening as Evan reciprocates with a small inhale of surprise, and there's a lack of experience or skill (they'll get there) but it's so fucking good, and everything's so warm, their mouths, the hand he slides down to rest on Evan's thigh... and he's suddenly pulling back and Connor's really fucked it now, he's gone too far, too much too soon--  
  
"Fuck, sorry, are you okay?"  
  
But Evan's not freaking out like usual, he's just flushed, colour high in his cheeks, and blinking rapidly as he replies.  
  
"I'm fine, it's okay, I'm just really warm..." He says, slightly dazedly. He takes a deep breath and shrugs his hoodie off onto the floor, before flopping back onto the mattress.  
  
Connor's not sure what this means; whether they're done and he's just sat there awkwardly the edge of the bed for nothing, but Evan shoots him this lazy smile from where he's laying, and the hem of his tee is riding up to expose a strip of skin and it makes Connor want to lay on top of him and do insanely fucking inappropriate things, but instead he lets out:  
  
"I keep forgetting you're absolutely baked."  
  
Because he does, until, with uncharacteristic forwardness, and a breathy laugh, Evan's pulling on his sleeve, tugging him down into a kind of awkward position, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, but one that lets them resume their kissing, horizontally this time. His bad wrist kind of hurts if it holds up his weight so he shifts to his elbow, lowering himself even closer to rise and fall of the chest of the boy beneath him, and he's really trying not to be uncontrollably hormonal but the closeness is so new and rare that he's irreversibly turned on, the tightness of his jeans in no way helping his situation.  
  
It should be embarrassing, really. It would be embarassing, if Evan weren't in exactly the same position, so they just smile into each other's mouths, and Connor takes a hell of a flying chance and slots his leg between Evan's, and the reaction is something to be filed away and remembered, a kind of cross between a bitten off gasp and a moan and an instinctive buck of the hips.  
  
"Is this okay?" Connor asks, as their foreheads press together, because Evan's gone real quiet, eyes screwed closed, and he nods.  
  
"Yeah yeah yeah that's... that's so good,  
just-- uh-- Sorry, can we rearrange?"  
  
And Connor's never been more grateful for a suggestion in his life, letting Evan move to a more comfortable position than lying perpedicular to (and half off the edge of) his single bed. There are a few moments of alien coldness at the separation, but once Evan's lay back against the pillows Connor's ridiculously quick at moving back in, hungry to feel the pull in his hair, the hot pressure of Evan's crotch moving against his thigh while he does the same, the soft gasps that fill up his entire brain and leave no room for any other thought than that Evan is bringing himself off underneath him.  
  
_Jesus Fucking Christ._  
  
If there's a sound of a car outside, they don't notice, so caught up in chasing the adolescent friction, bumping noses and knees.  
  
The key in the door is harder to ignore, though, and, with a start, Connor pulls back to listen.  
  
"Is that your mom?" he asks, and there's panic seeping into his voice, but Evan's still high as anything underneath him, and tries to pull him back down.  
  
"It can't be, the only day she gets off at two is Monday." He says, in an attempt to be reassuring, and Connor just looks at him.  
  
"It is Monday, Ev."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
First date in and he's about to be caught by Heidi Hansen, dry-humping her stoned son in his bedroom when they're both supposed to still be at school.  
  
As if released by the stress of the situation, normal Evan is back, pushing Connor off him and back onto his knees (a position that draws considerable attention to his arousal), and leaping off the bed, running hands that had just been tangled in Connor's hair through his own.  
  
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh my God," he mutters, and it takes all of Connor's effort not to laugh, because no matter the ridiculousness of the situation, Evan is genuinely distressed, so he tries his best to be placating, a skill that he's never really been all that good at.  
  
"Look, just chill out, okay?" he shifts to the edge of the bed, looks down at his crotch and hurriedly crosses his legs. "I'll go."  
  
The look Evan gives him is more than slightly pained, and the redness of his cheeks and the way his shirt is still twisted across his torso are a dead giveaway, so Connor stands and straightens it out. He's not entirely sure how he's supposed to leave with Heidi downstairs, the house definitely isn't big enough to sneak past, but the other option is presenting himself as the guy who has just corrupted her son big time, which isn't going to fly. He could shimmy down the drainpipe, but then he could also break his neck.  
  
In front of him, Evan's started to hyperventilate.  
  
"Hey, hey, calm down." Connor says, reaching for the shorter boy's shoulders because this reaction is actually getting kind of worrying. He doesn't even know how to manage his own panic, let alone someone else's, so he attempts to lighten the mood. "Has your mom really never nearly caught you jerking off before?"  
  
The mood might not be lightened, but Evan does look up at him with a comically incredulous expression.  
  
"No!" he hisses, but his breathing's slowing down as Connor rubs up and down his arms, "A-and definitely not with someone else! Besides, she's always out when I... anyway so... You made me forget."  
  
Connor smirks at that, and pride blossoms in his chest at being a sufficiently worthy distraction. He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"So this is my fault?" he jokes, but he should've known this is not a joke moment because Evan's off again, screwing up his face as he denies the accusation profusely.  
  
"No! No, I didn't mean--"  
  
"Jeez, relax, Evan, I was joking."  
  
He's trying to make him feel more comfortable, but all that seems to be happening is Evan getting more and more worked up, fingers reaching to mess with the edge of a non-existent cast, the guilt gnawing away in Connor's chest from making him so panicky in the first place. He brings a hand up to cover his face and sighs so deeply that Connor thinks he's probably exhaled his entire lung capacity, before stepping back from the taller boy's grip.  
  
"Sorry, I'm just..."  
  
The sentence hangs unfinished, but Connor knows what he's trying to say, because it's what he wishes he could articulate too. 'Sorry for the crazy shit my brain's throwing at me.' 'Sorry I have literally no idea why I react to things the way I do.' 'Sorry about being such a mess.'.  
  
"Don't apologise." Connor says, and Evan nods, not meeting his eyes. Heidi's still occupied downstairs, but the time is running short before she hears them or comes upstairs for something, so Connor moves quickly over to the window, which is fast looking like his only option. It's not too far down, and theres a ledge about half way to help him out, and it's literally nothing compared to the freescaling of the trellis outside his own third storey room that he's managed. A lot.  
  
He turns back to where Evan's managed to calm himself down slightly.  
  
"Look, I'll go out the window, if she asks why you're home so early, tell her you got sick and took the afternoon off, yeah?"  
  
The lie comes disturbingly easily, it's one he's used a million times, and about half of those times it lends itself to truth, when he spends his lunch disassociating in the disabled toilet until he can't take it any more and drags himself home to be faced with Cynthia's soft spoken lectures. But Evan frowns.  
  
"I don't know if I can lie to her like that." He says, and it takes all of Connor's willpower to not roll his eyes because, come on, the boy's lied to her about a suicide attempt before and he's worried about a truant afternoon?  
  
"Sure you can," he reassures him, and glances down at his waning, but still noticeable crotch. He grins. "And deal with that."  
  
The shade of scarlet that flushes Evan's face is really quite remarkable, and Connor tears his gaze away to pull up the window, stepping through with one leg when --  
  
"Connor?"  
  
"Mmh?"  
  
This kiss is lingering where it should be rushed, and if Evan slips in some tongue Connor is resolutely not complaining, except for when they pull apart and he feels like he might fall off the ledge onto the ground below with dizziness.  
  
Evan smiles.  
  
"See you tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

The drive home is uncomfortable at best, though nowhere near as uncomfortable as climbing down from Evan's window with a semi, and not even the mindless steering can take his mind off what's just happened.  
  
He knows they need to talk things through. He knows they're moving impossibly fast, which would be a warning, should be stopped if Evan wasn't so hungry for it as well - he's the one that took them inside, that pulled Connor on top of him and Connor's so fucking happy he did, just not especially when he's trying to concentrate on not swerving all over the road bc all he can think about is hands and mouths and his persistent boner.  
  
God, he's a freak. He's disgusting and perverted to keep replaying those sounds in his head, to keep thinking about that bitten back moan, to be thinking how he should've left hickey or something because that's what people do, but the self deprecating voice isn't nearly loud enough to stop him palming himself through his jeans as soon as he's through the door.  
  
No-one's home (there's a note on the dining table, Cynthia's gone to spin class or something) but he takes the stairs to his room anyway, falling back onto the sheets, struck by how dark they are in comparison to Evan's pale blue room. The whole space is dark, from the blackout blinds to the posters tacked to the walls, but he can think about his shadowy existence another time because he's pushing his jeans down his thighs and reaching into his briefs and fuck,-he doesn't think he's ever been this hard for this long before.  
  
He wonders if Evan's doing the same thing right now, whether he's sat on the edge of his bed tugging desperately to get off before his mom comes upstairs, and Connor can picture the expression on his face, the helpless arousal as he touched himself.  
  
It's Evan, in his head, constantly, hands tugging at his hair, warm weight beneath him, and it feels kind of shameful, getting off to someone real, but as he spreads the precum beading at the tip down the length of his cock and thrusts into his fist it also feels kind of wonderful. He imagines it's Evan's hand, jacking him off like this, or maybe Evan's mouth, lips stretched around his dick and that's so fucking perverse he doesn't even care he just wants Evan, wants Evan between his thighs, wants Evan on top of him, grinding his ass down into his crotch or more than that, he wants more, he wants--  
  
Fuck, he wants Evan riding him, needs it, needs his hands splayed on his chest to steady himself as he bounces himself on his cock, and he's definitely going to hell but it's worth it to even imagine the wet tightness, he tightens the ring of his fingers around his dick and brings his other hand up under the hem of the shirt to roll his nipple, having to stifle a moan before he remembers that he's home alone in a detached house and he doesn't have to stifle anything even if he could. He can hear the obscene sounds of his spit slick hand fisting his cock and his brain supplies the sounds from earlier, the soft breathy moans of Evan, of adolescent exploration and Connor wants to make Evan moan like that, make him whine and beg as he fucks him, make him screw his eyes closed with impossible pleasure as he comes riding him, and that's it, the image that sends him over the edge as he rolls onto his side, hips jerking erratically into his hand as he's coming, and maybe it's because it's been so long in the making but he rides it out for as long as he can, catching most of the spill in his hand and biting back Evan's name.  
  
Jesus Christ. He's a fucking disgrace.  
  
The post-wank self-loathing hits him like a bullet train, and he can't bring himself to check the messages that flash up from Evan on his phone because he's just so disgusted with himself. It's not like he suddenly doesn't want to do all of those things filling his head, but the killer combo of his sub zero self image and a healthy dose of internalized homophobia swirl in his mind as he cleans himself up and changes into his sweats. Who is Evan to him, to think about him like that anyway? Are they together? Are they boyfriends? The word sounds sickly in his mouth, but the day's developments push him to it more and more, unless...  
  
Unless Evan doesn't think so. Unless, and Connor honestly wouldn't blame him if this was the case, he's changed his mind within the space of an hour, which is both completely implausible and simultaneously an obvious outcome to his abnormal brain, and those texts are a carefully and sensitively worded rejection, a request to just forget the oddly dream-like events of the past day. Well. He's obviously got to check them now.  
  
Pulling out a cigarette from his bag (pre-rolled, God bless past Connor) to combat the come down of the spliff, he perches on his windowsill and blows the smoke out into the open air as he unlocks his phone. It's fucking freezing, but not even he's fond of the smell and he can also keep half an eye out for Zoe's imminent return.  
  
There are five texts from about twenty minutes ago, which wring a smile out of him.  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** So that was_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Nice _  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** ?_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** I mean that question mark wasnt questioning whether it was nice like it obviously was I was just thinking maybe I could have come up with a better word for it sorry _  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Never mind you're probably driving right now_  
  
And then, within the past ten minutes:  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** I think my mom knows_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** She's looking at me weird she smelled my hoodie she DEFINITELY KNOWS_  
  
Connor can't help but laugh, and imagine Evan trying to play it cool in front of Heidi. He types out a reply:  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** she knows we made out from the smell of your hoodie?_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** No_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** The weed?_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** o shit yh_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** has she said anything?_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** ...No_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** then yr fine_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** if they don't mention it then you've got away with it _  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** and it was nice it was really nice it was like amazing _  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Yeah_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Sorry I'm just freaking out she definitely knows I'm lying I can tell_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** And my skin has gone all weird is this normal _  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** that's the pot don't worry about it_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** anxiety is a side effect_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Connor_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** I consist of 90% anxiety already_  
  
He coughs on the cigarette smoke at the text, laughing at his screen.  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** lmao_  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** just take a nap or something and sleep it off _  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Okay okay I will_  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** Goodnight ♡_  
  
The message is too short for the good thirty seconds it took to type, and Connor wonders how much of that time Evan spent deliberating over sending the heart or not. He's glad he did.  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** it's 4pm........._  
  
_**Connor Murphy:** but yeah sleep well ♡_  
  
As if by the innate timing of the universe, Zoe pulls into the drive as he locks off the phone, heartened slightly by the conversation, feeling guilty slightly for exacerbating Evan's anxiety by feeding him drugs.  
  
He heads down the stairs, and she obviously saw him hanging half out of his window because there are two mugs on the kitchen island, one coffee for her, tea for him. Coffee makes him antsy.  
  
It's weirdly nice, both that she's remembered and she's bothered to make it, but as she perches herself on a high stool and leans on her elbow he knows this beverage is not without a catch.  
  
"I saw you go off with Evan this afternoon."  
  
She wastes no time or subtlety in getting straight to the point, sitting, staring and stirring sugar as he leans against the countertop. The physical tea was evidently a ploy to get him to spill the metaphorical, and he almost scoffs.  
  
"Wow, your eyes work."  
  
It's not one of his best one liners, but it still elicits a well practised eye roll, and too much has happened today to think up a better one.  
  
"Where did you go?"  
  
The tone is casual, but he knows better than to trust tone, because he's directly undermined Zoe's advice to stay away from Evan by a mile and a half.  
  
"Someone's being a nosy bitch." He snaps.  
  
"You have to tell me..." she begins, and he does actually scoff this time, because who does she think she is?  
  
"I don't have to fucking do anything."  
  
She takes a deep breath.  
  
"...if you don't want me to tell mom and dad that you've started skiving again."  
  
The threat probably holds less weight than she thinks, because honestly, fuck what Larry and Cynthia know or don't, but she follows it through anyway.  
  
"No more road trips with Evan if you've got no car. You know, that's probably a record, you've had it back for one day and--"  
  
"Whatever." He's not got the energy to fight, so he tells her. "We went to this park, and we smoked a joint and then I drove him home."  
  
She arches an eyebrow and takes a sip of her coffee, disapprovingly.  
  
"A whole afternoon off for that?"  
  
"And I kissed him."  
  
It just falls out of his mouth, barely audible and into the depths of the mug he's holding, and this is why he doesn't open himself up, because closing over is so much harder and he ends up telling Zoe shit that is resolutely not to be shared. Then again, if he's going to tell anyone, it would probably be Zoe, because who else has he got to talk to?  
  
At the statement she splutters into her coffee, before setting it down forcefully and fixing him with a glare. Well, maybe he's imagining it's a glare, because behind it is a glint of incredulousness.  
  
"You what?" she asks, and it's one of those questions that she obviously knows the answer to but just wants him to say it again out of some sadistic drive, so he does.  
  
"We fucking kissed, Zoe."  
  
There's a little smug smile on her face, but it doesn't quite reach to the kind of disappointment in her eyes.  
  
"I knew it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I knew you were gay." she says, "Since you were like, thirteen."  
  
What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? 'Wow, Zoe, quite the gaydar you've got there!' 'Gee, Zoe, funnily enough, so did I!'  
  
"Congratulations?" he settles on, but at least she hasn't reacted in the shit show fashion he expects of Cynthia and Larry, when he finally gets around to coming out to them. Then again, if his twelve year old sister could figure it out, they've probably known for years. His crush on Gerard Way was less than subtle.  
  
She backtracks though, realising the effect of her comment from his unforgiving expression.  
  
"Sorry, I just meant--"  
  
"Quit digging, Zoe."  
  
And she does, at least regarding Connor's sexuality, anyway. With her brows drawn together, she stirs her coffee for the millionth unnecessary time.  
  
"I just didn't know that he..." the words peter out, and Connor can't help but agree, because he didn't know either, still doesn't know what exactly Evan's into, just that it includes him and that's enough.  
  
And then--  
  
"Did you have sex with him?"  
  
\-- which flies out of nowhere like a speeding baseball to smack him square in the jaw, because--  
  
"Why the fuck is that any of your business?"  
  
Yet more evidence for the argument of never telling your kid sister anything about your personal life, lest it lure her into believing you actually want to discuss things in excruciating, mortifying detail. His guard is back up, impressively fast, and she's holding her hands up in mock surrender so his glare must have done the trick.  
  
"Because..." she starts, in her best attempt at pacification, "Well, you managed to get the sweetest kid in your year to break school rules and state law all in one day..."  
  
"So you think I intimidated him into fucking me?" He didn't think her expectations of him could get any lower, but she's full of surprises, comments that jab at his guts. Speaking in his best patronising tone, he looks over his cup at her. "It's just smoking pot, Zoe. I do it all the time."  
  
She scoffs.  
  
"Yeah, and look at the state of you."  
  
"Fuck you." he shoots back, half-assedly because he can't really argue with his unbrushed hair, sweatpants and bandaged wrist.  
  
"Fuck _you._ "  
  
She holds his gaze, unflinching, and he's not sure what's got her so riled up in the course of this conversation but there's something steely behind her eyes, some tension that's more than this parry of trading insults.  
  
"You know, I'm amazed you're actually able to function with that rod up your ass."  
  
The stare breaks, she rolls her eyes and twists her mouth in contempt.  
  
"I'm just reminding you you're not the best influence." she says, and God, she's insufferable, acting like he doesn't already have fifty voices in his head telling him he's a worthless shred of a human being, with that pious fucking ownership of Evan like she's his personal fucking bodyguard.  
  
"I'm just saying that you need to keep your beak out of other people's fucking business."  
  
"And what if I told mom?" she challenges, and Connor doesn't know where the fuck this has come from, her willingness to out both him and Evan to their parents for whatever moral superiority she's clinging to.  
  
"You wouldn't."  
  
"What if I did?"  
  
"What the fuck is it that you want?" he hisses, because if it gets her off his back he'll do her chores for a fucking year, but she's evidently not so easily satisfied.  
  
"I want you to realise that you could be damaging to him!"  
  
"Well surprise, surprise!" He slams the half full mug onto the countertop, and warm tea sloshes on the marble, and Zoe flinches. "We're both pretty fucking damaged anyway!"  
  
And, leaving her sat at the kitchen island, he stalks out of the room. It's as if she's got a lens into the worst, most self critical parts of his brain, pulling out all his favourite flaws to air them again under his nose.  
  
Zoe's so good at telling him everything he already knows. And he's sick of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say......... the beginnings of some unrequited zoe/evan making things super complicated? no ? just me? #drama


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a party invitation is a shameless plot device, and connor and evan finish what they started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!!!! thank u so much for your lovely words, I'm so excited to write alana v v soon ~~
> 
> enjoy x

The invite comes through the next morning. I mean, really? Who's sending out Facebook event invites at 7am? And who the fuck is sending them to Connor?  
  
Alana Beck, evidently.  
  
He's just falling back asleep after snoozing his alarm for the second time when the buzz jolts him awake, which is inconsiderate, quite frankly, seeing as he only managed to doze off at around 4am the night before. He only opens it because he thinks it might be a message from Evan, to be sorely disappointed.  
  
**_You have (1) new event invite:_**  
  
_Alana Beck's Halloween House Party!!!!_  
_A little party to bring everyone together for the awesomest holiday of them all - Halloween!!!_  
  
If overuse of exclamation marks could cause illness, Connor would be vomiting right now.  
  
Connor doesn't do parties. Connor can't do parties. (Connor has never been invited to a party in his life, but he knows that theoretically they would not work well for him.) The entire senior year seems to be invited, and quite a few juniors for good measure, including Zoe, giving Connor another reason to decline, and the concept of cramming so many teenagers in skintight costumes together in such a small place is bordering on horrifying. He'd much rather spend his Halloween how he always spends them: marathoning Hammer Horror films and wallowing in self pity.  
  
There was a time when it was fun, when Cynthia would spend days making costumes for him and Zoe (correction: paying other people to make them), churning out some fucking ace duos - Batman and Robin, Phil and Lil, even Sharkboy and Lavagirl one particularly memorable year, and it was nice to pretend to be someone else for a change. Then he hit 13, and hanging out with his sister, even just for one night of the year, wasn't fun anymore, and he realised pretty quickly that hiding from himself was a futile quest and resigned himself to his own, genuinely atrocious personality.  
  
Maybe he could go as himself this year.  
  
The thought gets quickly pushed out of his head, because he's not going anywhere as anyone, especially not Alana Beck's sad mixer event that she's throwing to prove to her parents that she actually has friends. Or acquaintances.  
  
The only place he's going is school, despite how his body lags on sleep deprivation, and the soreness of his wrist, and the greasiness of his hair because he's left it too late to shower, and the faint, low buzzing back in his head as he remembers his conversation with Zoe last night.  
  
He'll smoke a joint in the car. No-one will know.  


* * *

  
  
"All I'm saying, is if both you and Zoe, like, have your own car each, but you're both coming here, why can't you share?"  
  
"Because I'd rather tear out my fucking fingernails than spend more time with her than I have to."  
  
They're sat opposite each other in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, and Evan seems to be trying his best to understand the admittedly environmentally irresponsible travel arrangements that Connor's got going on with Zoe. He hasn't really thought about it, and it is kind of wildly excessive, but the topic's starting to grate on his overtired brain.  
  
"So you're just going to kill the trees with your carbon emissions, huh?" Evan half jokes, and picks at his sandwich.  
  
"Better than kill myself in a tin can with my sister..." Connor mutters, and he sees the way Evan's eyes flicker downwards, immediately regretting his words. Evan evidently doesn't cope using the same brand of humour.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," he says, "Just-- Can we drop this?"  
  
"Okay, sorry..." The way the boy opposite shreds the paper towel lining his lunchbox is meticulously slow, and a silence settles awkwardly. They still haven't Talked about it, about yesterday, and it's not like Connor wants to kiss him in the fucking corridor, or anything like that, but it would be nice to know where they stand, and what exactly they're doing. Evan changes the subject, but it's clear he's rattled slightly.  
  
"A-anyway, did you get this invite from Alana about the, uh, the party?"  
  
Jesus. She really did invite the entire senior year. Connor scoffs and peels out the organic courgette from his otherwise edible salad. Cynthia and her fucking 'clean eating'.  
  
"Hm, yeah. Fucking sad."  
  
He tells himself that he doesn't mean for it to come out so harshly, but a part of him does: the part that wishes he had the wherewithal to reach out like Alana's at least attempting to, better known as the disgustingly bitter part.  
  
(He doesn't like to admit that a contributing factor to his intense dislike of Alana may or may not be when she told him he should get some new, intact jeans in freshman year, after he'd spent hours ripping holes in them the night before. Not everyone understands art, apparently.)  
  
Not everyone is scoffing at the invitation so quickly, either, because Evan shrugs, and disagrees.  
  
"I-I don't know, I think she's just trying..." he trails off, and the optimism of his words almost overpowers Connor's bad mood.  
  
"To do what?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, but that's enough for Evan to lose faith in himself.  
  
"I don't know, sorry..."  
  
Connor really needs to work on that - on moderating his expressions, because every remotely negative one seems to make Evan feel like he hates him, and immediately abandon whatever point he was about to put across. He wants to apologise, but Evan's just apologised, and he doesn't want this conversation to be just them saying fucking sorry to each other, so he drops it.  
  
"Well whatever it is, she's trying too hard." he says, because she is: there's no way she can fit all of those people into one house. And then: "Too many exclamation marks."  
  
This twists a frown out of Evan, who looks up from his lunch box.  
  
"So that's why you're not going?" he asks, unimpressed. "Punctuation?"  
  
And Connor was only half joking, but he leans forward anyway to explain.  
  
"I'm not going because I can't physically cope in groups of more than five people, Evan. I'll have a fucking breakdown or something."  
  
He's not lying to get Evan off his back or anything - he's genuinely nauseated at the thought of that many people. He can practically taste the static in his sight at the idea, the panic rising in his throat. Evan evidently can too, because he nods, but there's a hint of disappointment in his reply.  
  
"Okay."  
  
He returns to pulling apart the layers of paper towel, and Connor has to sigh.  
  
"What?" he asks, instinctively reaching for Evan's hand before checking himself and stopping. "What is it?"  
  
Evan shakes his head hurriedly.  
  
"Nothing, nothing..." he lies, because he's still not looking up and the disappointment is there in the turned down corners of his mouth. Then Connor realises.  
  
"You totally want to fucking go, don't you?"  
  
He does. And it's surprising, really, because Connor was sure he could count on Evan: pushed to the edges Evan, to stick by him in his ostracism, and now he's turning back on him, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't pissed, because now he really is the only lonely freak that doesn't want to be there.  
  
"L-look, it really doesn't matter, so-- So just forget it, okay?" Evan stammers out, except now that he seems to sense Connor's indignance, the awareness of it evident in his nervous tone, the guilt hits, and Connor's forced to ask himself why the fuck he's angry that Evan wants to actually be part of something.  
  
"Why?" he asks, nonetheless, "It's just gonna be another sweaty, gross, overcrowded house party."  
  
And Evan laughs drily, and replies in probably the most quietly pointed tone Connor's heard him use.  
  
"Well I wouldn't know, because I've never been to one."  
  
It suits him, weirdly. He should be bitchy more often.  
  
"I mean, me neither," he admits, and Evan gives him this look that makes his skin buzz with the ridiculousness of the point he's trying to make, "But isn't the prospect just horrifying?"  
  
Evan doesn't answer his question, and Connor doesn't blame him. He also doesn't know why he's clinging to his fucking self imposed isolation with such voracity, when Evan Hansen, who has a fucking panic attack ordering pizza, is invested in the idea of going to a house party with the entire senior year. The boy opposite him sighs.  
  
"I guess..." He begins, and Connor leans forward, because he genuinely needs to know why Evan wants to do this, given the possible horrendous outcomes, "I guess I'm sick of always being outside and I just wanted to try and be part of something, but it's whatever, you know, because I can't go by myself and you don't want to."  
  
And something about that final phrase switches something in Connor, because he realises that Evan doesn't just want to go to the party; Evan wants to go to the party with him.  
  
Evan won't go if he's not there, and the responsibility of that both thrills and terrifies him. Well fuck.  
  
"Jesus, Evan..." he sighs, and the boy opposite him is still staring dejectedly at the table, and he starts to think (and hates himself for it) that maybe it wouldn't be an absolute fucking disaster if they were there together. He starts to think about them there, with each other, at a real life teenage house party, with red solo cups and shit music and a million people that would make him panic if Evan weren't there for him and him alone. He thinks about kissing Evan up against someone else's kitchen counter, dragging him into someone else's spare room, and the thought of succumbing to his own embarassingly mainstream teenage fantasies makes his knees weak.  
  
"Fine,"  
  
He tucks his hair behind his ear, and follows through reaching for Evan's hand this time, an action that makes the other boy start in surprise at the contact.  
  
"If I decided that I'd try, what would it get me?"  
  
He traces circles on the back of his hand with a finger, and the other boy flushes, attempting to understand this sudden change in train of thought.  
  
"Uh..." Evan manages, and it's one of the most endearingly flustered sounds Connor's probably ever heard, making him smile as he clips the lid on his Tupperware salad box. He removes his hand, shoves the box in his bag, and stands up.  
  
"That was an attempt at flirting, Ev. You'll get used to it."  
  
And as he stalks out of the cafeteria doors, if he's blushing too, he never admits it.  


* * *

  
  
_**Evan Hansen:** To answer your question, if you decided you'd try and come to the party and invited me over tomorrow we could maybe carry on with what we got interrupted with yesterday_  
  
_**Connor Murphy set Evan Hansen's nickname to 'flirt master'.**_  
  
_**'flirt master' set Connor Murphy's nickname to 'sarcastic dick'**_  


* * *

  
  
Murphy family dinners are about as enjoyable as Murphy family lunches, or the ridiculously enforced Murphy family breakfasts, which is to say that they usually manage to strip Connor of any of the will to live that he still has left. Usually.  
  
But tonight, despite Cynthia having cooked up some tasteless quinoa-lentil dish, and Larry once again attempting to engage him in Sports Talk, he's in a relatively good mood. Which thoroughly throws everything off.  
  
Maybe it's just because he hasn't got the energy to fight Larry at every turn, and he ate so little of his lunch that he's got no choice but to eat what's in front of him, or maybe it's because he's still thinking about taking Evan to this party, but Zoe keeps shooting him odd looks at the way he's nodding and even, what a Halloween miracle, smiling, at the dinner table.  
  
Optimism is scary. High hopes are dangerous, because when everything comes crashing down you've got further to fall onto the hard concrete below, and the impact breaks more of your bones. So the excitement is accompanied always by a kind of sick fear in his stomach, that threatens to boil over, fizzing into his head if he thinks too much about all those people, and what they're gonna say about psycho freak Connor Murphy showing up with anxiety freak Evan Hansen, and what might go horribly wrong at the slightest opportunity.  
  
But there's still a glimmer of hope.  
  
He decides to broach the subject, to go around attending this party legitimately, like with parental consent and everything. Or at least try. (He also wants to rub it in Zoe's face.) So, he finishes his mouthful of the actually not wholly terrible meal.  
  
"So, uh, I'm going to a party on Halloween?" he says, like he's asking a question, his tone betraying his own doubt at the idea, and Cynthia does her best to suppress a grin. Connor knows that grin. It's a relieved, weight-off-the-shoulders grin reserved for when Connor tells her he handed in a project in time, for once, or for when he shows up on Friday evenings, admittedly late but undeniably sober and clean.  
  
It's a grin for when he does the bare fucking minimum, but still gets praised for it, because his usual standard of life is so tragic that meeting deadlines and being invited to places by people is a miracle, in the world of lowered expectations that Cynthia has created for him. It's a grin that makes him prickle at the condescension, despite the good intention.  
  
Larry, on the other hand, expertly practised at seeming disinterested, settles for raising his eyebrows, but Connor can see he's shocked. Behind everything, he can't quite believe that Connor's capable of that degree of human contact. Well. That makes two of them.  
  
"Alana's party?" Zoe asks from across the table, and she makes the full house of surprised faces, except hers has this silent message behind it that says 'why the fuck didn't I know you were invited and why the fuck are you going anyway?'.  
  
"Yeah," he replies, smiling sweetly at her, before returning to his food, "Guess I'll see you there."  
  
"Well, I think that's wonderful." Cynthia chimes, and she's probably the only mom who's ever said that about sending her 17 year old son to a house party, rife with alcohol and drugs and fuck knows what else.  
  
Larry though, can always be relied upon to play his part.  
  
"Will you be drinking?" he asks, but whilst stabbing at food with his fork in an attempt to be casual, and Connor arranges his expression into feigned shock.  
  
"You really think I'd break the law like that?" he asks, and it even coerces a snigger out of Zoe, because if you can't joke about your unhealthy dependence on illegal substances around the dinner table, how the fuck are you supposed to cope? Larry just pins him with a stare.  
  
"I'm not joking, Connor. We didn't spend all that money on rehab for you to--"  
  
"Larry, please..." Cynthia cuts in, in an attempt to divert the conversation away from anything that actually needs to be discussed for everyone's sake, and Connor rolls his eyes, because what a fucking trauma it must have been for Larry to get his problem child out of the house for six fucking weeks for the extortionate price of about a hundredth of his monthly paycheck. And what a fucking travesty it must have been to not have to deal with his severely mentally ill son and instead send him off to a camp where he's told that he's a fucking criminal, and only given a therapy session once a week that dug about as deep into his dependence as the wafer thin cuts on his arms. (He considers his wrist, but then, not every analogy is perfect.) He never realised just how hard Larry must have had it.  
  
But he's in a good mood, and he uses the increasingly frequent picture of kissing Evan in Alana's imagined kitchen to drive away the static that creeps in.  
  
"I will not be drinking, Larry," he forces his voice to remain calm, but still notes the way the man tenses at the use of his first name, "Don't like drinking, anyway. I was in rehab for pot, remember?"  
  
He's not lying per se, because he doesn't like drinking, at least, not as much as smoking: it doesn't dull the noise so much as mix it into an indistinguishable, swirling mess, and everything he can lift from Larry's liquor cabinet leaves him feeling even shittier the morning after than he did to warrant him drinking it in the first place. Connor's hangovers hate him about as much as his brain does, and he doesn't really want to get into that fucked up drunkenness in someone else's house, with everyone and Evan having to deal with it. He can barely handle it alone.  
  
"Well, you'd better not do either." Larry warns, gesturing with his fork, and Connor's so close to pointing out that that's never stopped him before, but Larry turns to Zoe instead.  
  
"Keep an eye on him, if you're going to be there." he says, and she scoffs, indignantly.  
  
"What am I, his handler?"  
  
But Cynthia evidently fucking loves this idea, it seems to appeal to the part of her that used to dress them up as twins, the part that still thinks they're about five years old.  
  
"Oh, you can go together!" she suggests, and they protest in unison.  
  
"No fucking way."  
  
"Nope."  
  
And Connor figures this is as good a time as any to explain.  
  
"Uh, actually, we can't, because--"  
  
He wants to say 'because I'd rather tear out my liver than go with her', to make some dry remark, but decides the truth is preferable and necessary.  
  
"I'm already going with someone."  
  
There's a silence, Larry and Cynthia share a look that makes his skin crawl, and Zoe cuts through it.  
  
"Are you and Evan going together?" she asks, and, Jesus, Connor could strangle her right now, because there's no way she doesn't know what she's doing, and Cynthia's ears have pricked up, and Connor has to fight against yelling because he was, after all, the one who wanted to publicise this in the first place.  
  
"Who's Evan?" Comes the inevitable question, and honestly, Connor doesn't even really know himself, because he can't say his fucking 'boyfriend', not only because they haven't discussed it at all, but because he wants to show his parents that he has a semi-functioning social life, not come out to them over fucking quinoa salad. He's saving that particular announcement for when he has to derail an insufferable, large-scale family event. So he says:  
  
"A _friend_."  
  
Which is the truth, because first and foremost Evan is his friend, before all of the dream-like events of yesterday, and despite the doubting look Zoe gives him across the table. And in an awkward attempt at emphasising the platonicism, he makes himself cringe internally.  
  
"And yes. We're going to be at the party... with each other."  
  
Cynthia doesn't seem to notice, but, yet again, her forced cheerfulness comes out patronising and slightly nauseating.  
  
"Well isn't that just lovely!"  
  
She moves to pat his hand. He recoils, on instinct.  
  
Larry is not so easily convinced.  
  
"A friend?" he asks, and it takes Connor a second to place the scepticism in his voice before he realises oh my God, he totally thinks Evan is one of those dodgy, dealer guys Connor used to hang out with before he detached himself from them as well as the rest of the entire world. He laughs at the thought of Evan even being remotely associated with those kind of people.  
  
"My dealer is called Sean, Larry, before you ask." he replies, safe in the knowledge that if Larry cared enough about him not smoking pot, he could probably find Sean with a simple search through his sparse Facebook friends, but he doesn't, so he won't. Instead, he reprimands him, half-heartedly.  
  
"You need to watch your tone."  
  
"Well if you want to check he's not a bona fide dope fiend, he's coming over tomorrow."  
  
He's impressed by how nonchalantly he slips it into conversation. He's not surprised by the kick Zoe gives to his shin.  
  
"Connor, you should have told us." Cynthia sounds genuinely disappointed, "We're having dinner with the Dillingers tomorrow night."  
  
It's not like he planned the whole thing around his hellish parents not being in, or anything.  
  
"What a fucking shame." he mutters, trying to suppress a smirk, but Larry seems intent to shit on his dreams.  
  
"Maybe we'll meet him before we go."  
  
"Maybe you can trust that I have a friend." he snaps back, because there's no way he's scaring Evan away with the whole nuclear family charade they do so well the first time he comes over.  
  
"Trust is earned, young man."  
  
God, he's like if someone built a dad out of sitcom stereotypes and stuffed him full of apathy.  
  
"You can't blame us for being cautious." Cynthia joins in, and Connor's so close to the edge of being pissed, because apparently his friends need to be background checked now, but he needs to keep thinking about Evan, and yesterday, and tomorrow night, alone in his room, just to keep him sane.  
  
It's not quite enough, though it does help, but his head still goes fuzzy at the edges and he can't quite stop himself from muttering half under his breath --  
  
"You're such assholes."  
  
\-- before pushing back from the table, talking his plate with him.  
  
There's nowhere to hide in the open plan kitchen, so he just leans against the counter in a sulk to preserve his dignity before Zoe's joining him, holding her own tableware in her hands. She sets it down, and settles herself next to him, with this infuriating little smile on her face.  
  
"That would be nice," she says, "to have Evan over to meet the parents."  
  
But Connor's already halfway out of the room, calling his response over his shoulder.  
  
"I fucking hate you."  


* * *

  
  
It's five pm when they get to the house the next day. Connor's tried to stall: they went out for coffee, watched the sky darken over hot chocolates, but eventually they have to go home, and face whether Cynthia and Larry are still loitering, so Connor drives, and tries to dampen his anxiety with Evan's promise of what's to come.  
  
He tries to sneak a look at Evan's face as they pull into the drive, because he almost definitely thinks he's a spoilt brat now, the house looming and unnecessarily large and Connor likes to think that he doesn't match it, but that's probably far from the truth.  
  
The house makes him sick, because it's another reminder of just how screwy he is - that he can have all of this material shit that's supposed to make you happy but he still wants to fucking kill himself.  
  
Larry's car is still in the drive, which means they haven't left yet, which, in turn, means either some tactical movement, or resignation to the inevitable.  
  
Evan lets out a breath as they approach.  
  
"Wow, uh, your house is--"  
  
"Fucking ridiculous, I know, right?" Connor supplies, because who honestly needs two guest bedrooms, or fucking inlaid lighting along the path to the porch, other then someone with too much money than they know what to do with.  
  
"Kind of..." Evan agrees, and Connor smirks, because this is the same, kind of bitchy Evan from yesterday, that really kind of gets him going. Whether it's the bitchiness that appeals to him, which is kind of worrying, or the fact it shows Evan's getting comfortable enough around him to not be deferential all the time, he's not sure, but he likes it all the same.  
  
He keeps half an ear out for his parents as they take off their shoes (he doesn't usually take them off, but he's trying to give Evan the impression that he isn't completely disgusting), and tries to manoeuvre them to the stairs as quickly as possible. He's become an expert at sneaking in and out, but with another person as subtle as Evan, it's not that simple.  
  
"I'm not going to give you a grand tour, because the rest of the place is just as tasteless," he says, and Evan laughs as he's looking around, "Let's go upstairs?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
The other boy smiles, and Connor's stomach flips.  
  
But before they can get very far, the call comes from the living room.  
  
"Connor?"  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
"No." he replies because, I mean, it's worth a shot, and he carries on up the stairs until it's inescapable and Larry and Cynthia are in the hallway below and they're in their coats already which means they've been fucking waiting for him to come back before they leave, and what pair of psychopathic parents do that?  
  
Trapped between them, Evan looks up at him with a question written on his face, and there's really no escaping it now, so he, painfully reluctantly, takes two steps down until he's on the one behind the shorter boy.  
  
"Evan, my parents." He gestures, "My parents, Evan."  
  
It's not his finest work, but then he's not in the greatest place, and watching them shake hands is kind of weirdly nice but mostly terrifying, because there's no fucking hiding this now, their friendship, at least, is official and public which makes it around 300 times more fragile. Larry's got this look on his face, disbelief that he ever thought Evan would be a dealer or whatever the fuck else, and surprise at the fact that someone as clean cut as Evan actively enjoys Connor's company. That feeling, that he's largely intolerable, is mutual.  
  
"You're gonna be late." he says, once the appraisal is done and they're all feeling suitably uncomfortable, and it's not subtle in the slightest, but then his desire for them to go the fuck away isn't exactly a big secret. So, he turns back up the stairs after pulling on Evan's sleeve to follow, and all Cynthia can do is call after them to be safe and have fun.  
  
"Don't drain the Dillingers' wine cellar!" he calls back, having to fill in for himself her reaction, because Jesus, if anyone in the Murphy family needs to lay off the alcohol it's the wine-mom extraordinaire pretending to preach about sobriety and dependence, and Evan just gives him this look and yeah, he's probably a terrible fucking person, he's rude and disrespectful but he doesn't owe Evan shit with how he talks to his parents, especially considering the other boy's not exactly on higher ground.  
  
He catches himself, the bitter thoughts swarming like wasps, and battles to swat them away until he can see Evan clearly again, the only haze now being the guilt at his thoughts of the past minute. The apology bubbles in his throat, before he remembers that Evan is completely unaware of his train of awful consciousness, and he bites it back. Instead, he leads him up the last flight of stairs (having a kind-of loft room has its benefits and drawbacks, in the form of extreme privacy but a lot of leg exercise) and opens the door, suddenly embarrassed by the scraps of Spiderman stickers, the radioactive _'KEEP OUT'_ sign, since corrected to _'FUCK OFF'_ on the door.  
  
It's a mess. He wanted to tidy it, to make a good impression, but he got up late again this morning so the curtains are still drawn and the covers that should have been changed a week ago are crumpled at the end of the bed, and his vintage Star Wars poster's hanging down from one corner, threatening to drop onto his TV so he quickly moves over to put it back up. Evan looks like he's soaking it all in, the stains on the carpet, the dents in the dark blue walls (he'd wanted black, this was the best he was allowed), and perches himself on the edge of the bed, and he looks so out of place there Connor knows that this was a bad idea. Evan doesn't belong in a place like this.  
  
"Sorry it's such a shithole." he mutters as he tips the ashtray on his bedside table into the bin (Jesus, Connor, sort yourself out), but Evan's back to being relentlessly polite as he watches.  
  
"No! No, I like it. It's... uh, it's like you." he says, and Connor doesn't know where politeness ends and honesty begins.  
  
"Dark, unwelcoming, with a strong smell of cigarettes?" he deadpans, and it's a small victory when Evan doesn't take him completely seriously.  
  
"No," he replies, instead standing with a kind of nervous energy and moving behind where Connor's trying to straighten out the clothes dumped on his desk chair, "It's... interesting."  
  
"That is such a fucking cop out." Connor replies with a chuckle, because bless Evan for trying, but he doesn't need to hide the dreadfulness for his sake, he's the one that has to live here after all.  
  
But there's a tug on his sleeve, and he turns around, twisting a t-shirt in hands, and the kiss isn't exactly a shock, but the warmth that blossoms in his chest still takes him by surprise, Evan's hands lingering by his jawline.  
  
He feels like he should say something, when they break apart, but he doesn't really need to, and he probably wouldn't be able to find the words even if he did, so instead he just drops the shirt behind him and brings his hands up to rest on Evan's sides, making him shiver, leaning in to feel the flare again, and they both know why they're there so when he starts to lean closer Evan does his best to shuffle backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he's sat, sweater pale in comparison to the backdrop, on the edge of Connor's bed. Connor wants to take a picture, capture this moment in case it never happens again, the way Evan's breath shakes as he looks up at him, the way his own hair brushes at the other boy's forehead as he stands over, the way Evan reaches up with hands that curl around the back of his neck and drag him down to kiss him, deep and slow. And he doesn't know what's happening to him, because ten minutes ago he had pent up frustration to spare and now all he wants to do is this, to feel whatever this rush of hormones is that makes him forget everything else.  
  
So when Evan takes his hands away Connor's got his eyes closed, and he opens them at the absence to see him doing what his brain supplies is pulling off his shirt (wishful thinking?) but is actually just pulling his sweater off over his head.  
  
"I thought you were stripping off." he laughs quietly, and Evan reddens.  
  
"You don't need to worry about that." he mumbles, and Connor wants to say that he does, actually, want to - not worry about it, that is, just think about it, but that's a bit full on for where they're at right now, so instead he just leans down and kisses him, because he's not about to turn this into a body image therapy session when they could be making out instead.  
  
And his hair keeps getting in Evan's face, and bending like this isn't very comfortable, so he sinks down onto his knees, hands moving as freely as he dares down the other boy's sides, but Evan kind of tenses and pulls his face away. 

"Sorry, I-uh, I don't know if I want you to..." He tries, and Connor doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about, because they've done this before, right? So why is Evan getting so freaked?  
  
"What is it?" he asks, and when Evan just shakes his head in response, he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and repeats the question. Jesus, he's soft for this boy. "What is it, Ev?"  
  
"Well, you like, got on your knees, and -- Well I just don't know if I want..." He trails off, and Connor very nearly laughs, because-  
  
"Holy shit, you think I want to suck your dick, right?"  
  
And he's kneeling between Evan's legs so he can't exactly blame him for jumping to conclusions, but at the question Evan just shakes his head harder and fuck, Connor needs to watch how he's saying what he's saying.  
  
"Not that I don't want to, you know." He amends, and receives an incredulous look in response, and Evan shifts in his seat, "But we can build up to it."  
  
And Evan just laughs and kisses him like he's got nothing to say in response, and Connor doesn't particularly care because it's so much easier what they're doing right now, testing the boundaries of each other's physicality with wandering hands, and when words get involved they're dragged back out of whatever they've fabricated here into the cold open air, and it's not that Connor doesn't believe in healthy negotiation, but it's never really been his strong suit, and it's never really got him going the way Evan does when he shifts back to lay on his back, knees bent and slightly apart, waiting for Connor to crawl on top of him and complete the picture.  
  
It's a pretty picture. Connor wishes he had the wherewithal to capture it, but Evan would freak if he took a picture, and he's not about to pull a Leo and sketch him, although he does look like a work of art, flush creeping down his neck, hair ruffled, lips red and parted, and then the whole area that Connor can't even look at without feeling his arousal: from where his shirt lifts tantalisingly, down to his crotch, his inner thighs, his fucking legs, and Connor stops staring and kicks his body into gear.  
  
It's like the last time, all exploration and insecurity, except they're not going to get interrupted this time, and instead of pressing his leg between the heat of Evan's, he pushes them apart in a way that makes Evan inhale shakily and settles between his knees, leaning down to capture his lips. He's still wearing his hoodie, because he's not quite ready to let Evan see the mess he's made of his arms, but the other boy seems to radiate heat through the thin t shirt, and as they're kissing, all tongue and snatched breath, Connor tests by flattening his palms against the exposed skin of his stomach, and Evan hums into his mouth which he takes as indication to push his hands further under the hem.  
  
The heat is surprising, being this close to someone is almost too warm, chests now flush, faces red and crotches not yet rubbing but shit, he wants them to so as he inches his hands up Evan's torso, he lets his hips grind down and holy fucking shit, the friction of their clothed cocks straining against one another makes them both groan. A rhythm is established, rushed and seeking contact, pressing and grinding, and Connor's feeling Evan's chest now, somehow more arousing with the shirt still on, and he's got more body hair than anyone would have probably expected from him, and why the fuck does Connor find that so hot? He's thinking about Evan's crotch, whether that's the same situation, whether he can press his nose into hair as he takes him in his throat, and fuck, he's thinking about sucking Evan off as he brushes over his nipples and the other boy whines and pulls his legs up to wrap around his waist in response and now he's locked into humping like the ridiculous thing he is, grinding his crotch down as he feels Evan dragging his mouth across his jaw, pressing wet kisses to the juncture of his neck and he lets out:  
  
"Bite me."  
  
And his horny brain registers from Evan's confusion that that came out rather wrong.  
  
"I just mean like, leave a mark," he breathes, and Evan smiles, relieved, and leans back in to suck gently at the skin, but Connor pulls back again.  
  
"Harder." he says, and Evan tugs his hair with newfound gall, and bucks his hips up, and Connor pants into the crook of his neck, "Oh, fuck-- yeah, harder."  
  
Because there's no way nobody's going to ask about hickies knowing full well the only person he's been with is Evan, but the tight pain of the teeth on his neck, and his desire to be marked by someone other than himself, to have bruises from this kind of searing lust and not from anger or pain is greater than his fear of getting outed, so he rocks his hips down and mouths at the juncture of Evan's jaw.  
  
It's something about the boldness with which the other boy tightens his legs around his waist, pulling him in, or the way his hands tangle in his hair and tug, or the primordial scrape of teeth against his skin that makes Connor's head swim, because Evan taking a kind of control in this situation is unexpected and so fucking good, and registers in Connor's brain as trust and want, and his jeans are so tight that the rub of fabric against his dick is driving him so close to the edge so he presses impossibly closer.  
  
"Connor-- fuck, I think I'm gonna--"  
  
He sounds almost apologetic, almost worried, hands gripping at Connor's shoulders as he cants his hips up with increasing speed, so Connor leans down and captures his lips in what he hopes is reassurance, and takes a wild choice in dragging his blunted nails down the sides of his torso, and Evan fucking whines, the sound completely intoxicating.  
  
"C'mon, Ev," Connor whispers and that sends him over the edge, and the thighs around his hips tense, and the rhythm stutters as the boy underneath him comes apart in high, breathy moans, and he wishes he could see Evan's expression as he climaxes but they're too close so instead he just drags his mouth up his neck and makes a note to watch next time. Before he can even think, his hand is moving down and his own orgasm is building, fuelled by Evan's exerted breath in his ear, and he should've taken his hoodie off because he's burning up but instead he rubs at his cock through his jeans until he's coming like an embarrassment in his pants but he guesses they're both embarrassments together because it's just so good that he forgets to care for a split second.  
  
For a split second he grins into Evan's skin, and Evan laughs back in that breathy way he's grown to recognise, trying his best to run his fingers through Connor's tangled mess of hair, that's now sweaty and gross because he's still wearing his fucking hoodie, and he's aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he might be crushing Evan because he's kind of collapsed on top of him, and very soon the wet warmth in their underwear is going to turn utterly grim but for now they're both boneless and giddy and fuck, he wants to feel like this for forever.  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ." he breathes, and heaves himself off the other boy to lay on his side.  
  
And Evan shifts to face him, a tentative hand reaching to hold his own, this flushed smile plastered on his face. He raises an eyebrow, and leans in to murmur, his voice conspiratorial:  
  
"Nope. Just me."  
  
And as he kisses him, slow and sweet, Connor thinks that whoever the fuck he is, he's working miracles. 


	8. viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> consider the dirty laundry very much aired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY for some reason this chapter was v difficult to write so I had to keep coming back to it and ugh
> 
> it's a bit of an angst fest. tw for self harm and sIbLiNg rIvAlRy and?? generally everything to do w/ connor
> 
> (to clarify ::: I Love Zoe Murphy. I am writing from Connor's pov who loves her.... less, so remember this narrative voice is v much skewed)
> 
> enjoy !! x

For a good minute, all they can do is lie there, Evan's thumb brushing the back of Connor's hand, Connor resisting the urge to kiss him even more breathless than he already is.   
  
The feeling pressing tightly against his ribs is the same as two days prior, a buoyancy brought about by contact and intimacy and the feeling of being wanted that's barely the right side of comfortable in how foreign it is to him. And he knows Evan feels it too, from the way his eyes don't know where to land, so they just lie there on the mattress in a kind of comfortable silence.  
  
He's still unreasonably warm, and Evan seems to notice, pulling at the neck of his hoodie and blushing slightly when he sees the fresh dark marks underneath.   
  
"Do you, uh... wanna take this off?" he asks, and Connor takes his hand away, lying right to his face, because that's the kind of awful guy he is.   
  
"Nah, I'm good."  
  
And Evan nods, but his eyes narrow at the still present flush in Connor's cheeks.  
  
"Okay, uh, you're just really warm--" he starts, and tries to brush the strands of hair away from where they stick to Connor's forehead, but he pulls away.  
  
"I'm not warm. I'm fine."  
  
Liar.  
  
They're back to that scene in the corridor, to Evan's insufferable concern and Connor's impressive ability to push him away. He doesn't like people fussing over him, he prefers to be left to himself, like when he'd skate with a torn up knee rather that let Cynthia anywhere near him with her antiseptic wipes and unbearable worry, and the same goes for Evan, by all accounts. But he won't let up.   
  
"Maybe you should--" he tries again, and now Connor can't hide that there's another reason for keeping it on because the heightened nature of his voice gives it away.   
  
"I'm not fucking taking it off." he says, firmly, and he can feel Evan searching his face for clues as to what's wrong, the inspection uncomfortable and intimate.   
  
"Whatever it is," Evan begins, and something which Connor can only assume is trust blossoms at his voice, "I don't care."  
  
But he would care. Maybe he's lying, maybe he doesn't realise how much he'd freak out if he really knew the ugly shit going on in Connor's head, what he does with the blades on the very bed where they're lying, but he definitely would, and suddenly the idea of Evan, lay where he's had his most awful breakdowns, where he nearly downed that bottle of pills those years ago, where he cuts, is too awful and unnatural that he scrambles for an excuse to get them both up, the uncomfortable underwear situation giving him just that.   
  
He pushes up from the bed, grimacing at the dampness of his crotch.  
  
"You need clean underwear, right? Let me grab some."  
  
The swerve in conversation topic is pathetic, they both know that, and Evan sits up to watch as Connor starts opening horribly disorganised drawers, an expression on his face somewhere between disappointment and concern.  
  
"Connor..." he says, and it lands like a reprimand, and now Connor feels fucking guilty and annoyed at the same time, because why can't Evan just play along with the charade?  
  
He tries again.   
  
"I was thinking pizza tonight, like usual?"  
  
And this time, Evan seems to have resigned himself to not getting an answer anytime soon, so he sighs and nods.  
  
"Yeah, good, pizza sounds good..." he says, and thank God they can move the conversation along.  
  
"Zoe might wanna jump in on it but whatever." Connor replies, because he's only just remembered that she's still in the house, and if they're going to eat downstairs, they're going to have to put up with her, and it's not like she'll know what they've been doing, but if Connor leaves the neck of his hoodie just wide enough, she might pick it up from the dark purple marks.  
  
Evan nods.  
  
"Okay."  
  
There's something lingering in his expression, like he's disappointed at this new emotional distance after physical closeness, like he can't quite believe Connor can revert to defensive survival mode quite so quickly after they've got each other off. And, truth be told, the present avoidance and buzzing had overruled all previous giddiness, until he starts thinking about it again, and now it's all he can think about, and now he needs to say something about the kind of monumental thing they've just done, if not only to stop Evan eyeing him like that.  
  
"That was..." he trails off. Great start, Murphy, you're incapable of articulating the painfully temporary happiness you've experienced. He changes tack. "I've never done anything like that before."  
  
He's not sure why he says it, maybe because Evan knowing that he's his first time will mean as much to the other boy as it does to him, maybe as an excuse for why it was fumbling, and awkward, but Evan blushes at discussing the act, and Connor loves it.  
  
"Me- uh, me neither." he replies, and unspoken is the fear that the inexperience made it bad, so Connor clarifies.   
  
"It was good." he says, "Like, it was really good, it felt, like, fucking amazing."  
  
He's gripping two clean pairs of briefs in his hands as he talks, and there's about a million other things he wants to say but he leaves it there to avoid further embarrassment . Evan seems to have a similar incapacity for speech.  
  
"Yeah." he agrees, kind of breathless, and the way they're looking at each other gives Connor impulsive courage to kiss him, quickly and deeply, because Jesus, Evan is driving him crazy if he wasn't already before.   
  
"You make me..."  
  
He's about to tell him just how hard Evan makes thinking, but he decides better of it, and just hands him the briefs.  
  
"Here. I'll change in the bathroom."  
  
He heads down the stairs and changes quickly, mentally cursing his own defensiveness that seems to ruin every good thing he attempts, and as he examines himself in the mirror he pulls his hair back into a tie, grimacing at the boniness of his face, the high coloured patches in his cheeks.   
  
Tugging up the sleeves of his hoodie, he tries to see if he could go without it, if the scars are old enough that he could get away with Evan not noticing, but the bandage is still there, along with the red lines from that same night, and no matter how pale the rest are, the number makes them impossible to hide, making them into a raised, jagged mess that pricks fizzing in his head. They make him feel sick, and not as a figure of speech, but a genuine, physical reflex taking him back to the state he was in whenever he made them, panicked or angry or just really fucking low. They're instant gratification, a comfort in the moment that, long term, only reinforces his view of himself as something damaged, something fucked up that he wants to keep from Evan for as long as he can.   
  
He should've picked up a long-sleeved top before he left the room, so he doesn't have to boil in the cranked up heating of the house, but he didn't, because he's awful, and he notices hasn't changed the gauze on his wrist since Monday so he pulls it off wincing slightly.  
  
Despite its cleanliness, it still stings, and brings the strongest of all emotional associations with it, that tears at his insides and forces him to try and cover it again as soon as he can, but as he's opening the cabinet there's a figure in the open doorway, and --  
  
"Connor? Where should I put--"  
  
It's Evan, holding his underwear in his hands, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees what Connor's doing.  
  
"Jesus, fuck, Evan!"  
  
It's more out of panic than aggression, and the static flares suddenly enough that he kind of slams the cupboard door closed, Evan's flinching at the action and backing away.  
  
"Sorry, I'm sorry-- I didn't mean to--" he stammers, frantically, moving as if to leave, but his eyes are glued to Connor's forearms with a kind of morbid fascination and he can't seem to stop talking, "It's just that the door was open and I thought that you were -- I should've waited, I'm sorry about just walking in and --"  
  
Connor's managed to lean against the sink for some support, but the noise in his head and Evan's rambling are getting too much so he holds up a hand.   
  
"Just -- Just shut up for a second, for fucks sakes," he snaps, immediately regretting his harshness when Evan's face shuts down and he breathes out yet another apology, gaze lowered.   
  
"Sorry."  
  
"No, I--"  
  
Why is this so fucking difficult? Why is he so emotionally stunted that even after feeling Evan come underneath him, he doesn't trust him enough to take off a goddamn hoodie in front of him? Why is hardness and doubt all he can manage?  
  
"I'm sorry, that was... shitty," he manages, after a few deep breaths, "You just... You really can go off on one sometimes."  
  
Evan exhales some tension and manages to raise his gaze again.   
  
"I know, I know, I'm..." he blinks before saying the word one last time, "Sorry."  
  
"And I didn't want you to... know. About this." Connor continues, because in some twisted sense of sacrifice he still wants to protect Evan from what he's capable of doing to himself, and he's fucked up a month of well curated secret keeping, "So I'm freaked. Yeah."  
  
A pause, and Evan takes in the sight of the scars.  
  
"It's awful, right?" Connor mutters after a minute, because he knows Evan's isn't going to speak. But the other boy wrings his hands and manages to surprise him.   
  
"I-I don't care." he says, and it's well-intentioned but either a complete lie because there's no way anyone could see what he's done and not care, or painful truth because Evan just doesn't give a shit about it. He wants him to care, to be mad or upset or disgusted because Connor can handle that.  
  
He replies as he's pulling out the first aid kit from the cupboard.   
  
"You probably should. It's twisted, honestly."  
  
And Evan's face screws up again because he's said the wrong thing, and Connor's sure he's going to have to get used to this guilt that comes with everything that escapes his mouth.  
  
"Well yeah, sorry, I do _care_ , I guess, for your safety, I just..." Evan reigns himself in, and stills Connor's hand as it struggles with the clip of the box. The sincerity in his stare is frightening as he continues. "It doesn't change... how I feel. I still like you."  
  
And Connor kind of freezes, examining the lines of Evan's expression, computing how to handle someone caring not because of how uncomfortable it makes them, but from worry for his wellbeing.  
  
"That makes one of us." he manages, finally, but the delivery is limp because Evan's turning over his left hand and tracing the pad of his thumb under the cut, where old lines interlace, and it's gentle and patient and fuck, Connor doesn't deserve this.  
  
"Do you want me to help?" he asks, softly, and Connor's not quite at the stage where he'll allow himself to verbally ask for assistance so he just nods, because his fingers are clumsy and shaky with adrenaline, and Evan helps him take off his sweater with uncharacteristic sudden calm, redressing his wrist efficiently.  
  
Once he's finished, his hand traces up the length of Connor's arm, and down across the faded 'Pixies' print on the worn cotton of his shirt, face upturned in a silent question that Connor answers by letting him lean in and drinking all comfort he can from Evan's kiss, so that when they break apart he's feeling somewhat human again.  
  
Picking up the hoodie from the side of the bath, he turns to the other boy.   
  
"Do you mind if I leave it off?" he asks, and he's not sure why he does, but he needs so desperately for Evan to not pull away from him right now that he wants to check every action against his level of comfort.   
  
Evan frowns.   
  
"Of course not, why would I mind?" he replies, and Connor knows the answer is stupid considering how adamantly Evan's insisted he doesn't care about the scars, but he still gives it anyway.   
  
"I don't know, just... they're ugly?" It's not a question, despite the inflection, because there's no denying that they're horrible to look at, "They make my parents uncomfortable, I can tell."  
  
It's all in the sideways glances when he scratches at them, the way they'd shift in their seats when the topic would come up in therapy, back when he still went, and when they insisted on going with him, despite how upsetting it evidently was to them. He figures it's uncomfortable viewing the physical evidence that your child is fucked in the head.   
  
Then again, a lot of things make Cynthia and Larry uncomfortable. Namely, his existence.   
  
"I don't care." Evan says, one last time with honest eyes, and this, along with 'Sorry' might become a stock phrase that defines their relationship.  
  
Connor tucks his hair behind his ear and manages a smile, because for once, he's starting to believe him.  
  
"Cool. Thanks."  
  
He still keeps the sweater with him though, as a kind of safety net, when they head downstairs, wringing it in his hands and throwing it onto the couch from behind as they enter the living room, startling the figure already sat there.   
  
It's Zoe, unaware until this point of their entrance, being completely plugged into whatever inane YouTube video she's watching. With a look up, she leans forward to put her laptop on the table, and takes her headphones off, not just pushing them onto her neck, but fully setting them down, facing both of them with an odd smile.  
  
"Evan, right?" she asks, somewhat suddenly, and he seems taken aback by the directness but shakes her outstretched hand anyway (really? shaking hands?) "I'm Zoe."  
  
She completely ignores Connor, who moves around to pick up the house phone and fall back against the cushions of the opposite sofa, prime position to watch the slightly over - enthusiastic introduction.   
  
"Yeah, yeah I know." Evan replies, and Connor tries not to dwell on how he knows, until he gives the answer, that is. "I-- uh, I see you, at jazz band sometimes."  
  
"You're in jazz band?" Zoe asks, for both siblings.  
  
"No!" Evan laughs nervously, and picks at the pocket of his jeans. "No, uh, I meant at the concerts? I see you play, you're really good."  
  
Connor can't help but bristle at this new information, at this existing relationship between Evan and his sister that he was unaware of, until Evan wets his lips and he can divert his thoughts instead to the memory of that tongue licking into his mouth, and it's blissfully calming to distract himself with that instead of irrational envy.  
  
"Oh, thanks." Zoe fully beams, and glances over at him harshly, "Connor never comes to the concerts."  
  
It's unnecessary pointed, and he nearly flips her off, but Evan's moving over to sit next to him so he holds back. The other boy taps on Connor's knee and tells him:  
  
"You should, they're awesome."  
  
He doesn't want to crush Evan's dreams by telling him there's nothing that makes him more nauseated than that idea, so he just nods, non-committally.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind." he says, and changes the subject from what a half-assed brother he is, because it's not doing wonders for his already shot self esteem, "We're having pizza, Zoe. "  
  
"Can you order me a pepperoni?" she asks, just as he anticipated, and he raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Are you physically incapable of ordering it yourself?"  
  
He's only half joking, because he really wants to be alone with Evan, but Zoe seems intent on third - wheeling as much as is physically possible so she dismisses his comment and smiles, sweetly.  
  
"Medium, please. And a Pepsi." she says, and she'd better be paying for this, for fucks sakes, because there's no way Connor's spending money on her gatecrashing his date. He puts in the number and tugs at the neck of his shirt, absent-mindedly, feeling her eyes watching the action.   
  
"What are..." she begins to ask, presumably about the dark bruises, before looking from him to Evan, back to Connor, and down into her lap, reddening slightly in realisation. "Oh."  
  
"Pepperoni, was it?"  
  
If it's possible to go to hell for smug satisfaction, Connor's already there.  
  
He orders the pizza. Evan pulls at a thread of his jeans. Zoe breaks the subsequent silence by leaning forward and asking him.   
  
"You're going to Alana's party, right, Evan?"  
  
"Yeah..." he replies, somewhat warily, and she smiles.   
  
"It's gonna be awesome." The smile widens, and there's an odd element to it, like it could crack at any moment. Who are you going as?"  
  
Connor answers, because Evan's fidgeting is a warning sign of his discomfort. "We're not dressing up."  
  
And the other boy gives him a grateful look which soothes his momentary panic, because they haven't actually discussed costumes at all, and what if Evan wants to plan something elaborate? Evidently, and thankfully, that doesn't seem to be the case.  
  
"I wasn't asking you, dickwad." Zoe retorts, but Evan's recovered the ability to back him up.   
  
"Yeah, I actually don't think I'm going to go as anyone." he says, with a nervous laugh.  
  
She scoffs, and moves in, conspiratorially.  
  
"Don't let 2011 emo boy ruin your fun, Ev."  
  
Deep breaths, Murphy.   
  
He replies on Evan's behalf, again, though more out of annoyed defensiveness than anything.  
  
"He's not."  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay, really." Evan emphasises, and Zoe seems to accept failure, slumping back onto the cushions and shaking her head.   
  
"Suit yourself... But when I show up in my perfectly executed General Organa costume, you can't be jealous."  
  
Of course, Connor should've guessed she's got something impressive up her sleeve. He wonders what it must be like to be able to dedicate time to thinking about Halloween costumes, and extra curriculars, instead of barely being able to make it through the day. His jealousy manifests itself in sniping.  
  
"Just call her Princess Leia like every other fucking normal person." he mutters, and she rolls her eyes.  
  
"Fuck you, Connor."   
  
Then, leaning forward once again, like she can't butt out of Evan's space for more than five minutes:   
  
"Oh my god, Evan, you should totally go as Luke! And Connor can make the most of his mop and go as Chewbacca."  
  
He's momentarily pissed at getting saddled with the wookie when he's her actual brother in this scenario, before he reminds himself that there's no universe in which this is a possibility.  
  
"That's literally never going to happen." he tells her, as she looks expectantly to the other boy for a response, which isn't forthcoming. At this realisation, she pins Connor with a withering stare.   
  
"Why are you such an asshole?".  
  
God, he wishes he had an answer to that. He's been asking himself the same question for years.  
  
"That's rich." he deflects, instead, and chips away at the fresh black nail polish from yesterday.   
  
Evan's really getting the best view of the family today, he thinks, what with the creepy parents waiting in ambush, and this weirdly competitive sibling display. Then again, it's not as bad as it could be - it's not a full blown row, and Connor's not drunk, or high (though he really needs a fucking smoke) which always seems to drive these scenarios over the edge, so they're not doing too badly, all things concerned.   
  
"Honestly, Evan, I don't know why you're putting up with him." she says; it's only half a joke and it stings doubly because it's the same thing he's asked himself a million times since the beginning of this whole affair, and he doesn't need Zoe speeding up the inevitable process of Evan realising what a miserable excuse for a person he is and ditching his ass.   
  
She's smiling, blithely, what a fucking bitch, and Connor can feel the static burn again, hands clenching and the tension proving too much for Evan, beside him, who stammers:  
  
"Where's-- Is there a bathroom down here?"  
  
It's an obvious escape ploy, but Connor can't blame him, especially seeing how frantically his eyes are darting between them, how he's worrying at that loose thread on his pants.   
  
"Yeah, I'll show you."   
  
He wants to rest his hand in the small of the other boy's back as he leads him out, but he's so on edge already that the satisfaction of Zoe's reaction doesn't justify Evan's distress and he decides against it. Instead, he clenches his fists, and were his nails not bitten to within an inch of their lives they'd dig into his palms as he turns back into the room.   
  
"What the fuck was that?"  
  
He doesn't bother hiding his anger now that Evan's gone, it hums threateningly inside him and release seems to be the only way to quiet it- Zoe's response the perfect way to augment it.  
  
"What the fuck was what?" she replies, not even looking up from her phone, and in a flash of annoyance he snatches it from her hands.  
  
"Your expert attempt at smearing me." he spits, because her comments are anything if not carefully curated to show Connor in his worst light.   
  
She folds her arms over her chest, but doesn't bother trying to get the device back - physical confrontation is a whole other ball game - instead glaring up at him.   
  
"It doesn't count as smearing if you're actually an asshole." she retorts, and there's actually some logic in that if he thinks about it, which he decides not to, instead throwing her words back at her.   
  
"Does it count as smacking you if you're actually a bitch?"  
  
He doesn't actually want to hit her, despite the crescendo of static.   
  
"And you wonder why I'm confused about Evan liking you."  
  
Maybe he does want to hit her, after all.  
  
She's not the only one confused about why the fuck Evan is bothering with him, but the blunt expression of it, the hostile drive behind the sentiment makes Connor's chest hurt, and the noise in his vision rise.  
  
"I'm still wondering at what point it became your business." is all he can say, and she turns her gaze to her lap, because to explain this away by some platonic protection she feels obligated to provide Evan with is an excuse that has long since passed plausible. It must be something else. Something else.   
  
"Wait."  
  
The realisation makes him dizzy with how everything fits together, the bitterness, the odd flirting. Zoe fucking likes Evan.  
  
"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God." is all he can muster, lightheaded and detached.  
  
"Connor..." Zoe begins, and there's a pleading tone to his name. He smacks her phone against his palm and steps back, staring into the carpet.   
  
"It all makes sense." he mutters, slightly seasick, "It makes so much fucking sense I feel like throwing up."  
  
"What are you talking about?" she says, standing as he moves back to pace absently, but it's not really a question, but the last defence of someone caught out, her cheeks red.  
  
"Don't fucking lie, Zoe." he scoffs, words hollow, "I can't believe you."  
  
"For your information, I liked him before you even noticed he existed."  
  
Self-righteous, entitled, uppity bitch.  
  
"What? And that gives you ownership or some shit? He's a _person_ , Jesus..."   
  
As if he wasn't insecure enough already. As if he didn't already feel unworthy of every possible good thing he's got, but now Zoe, bright and sunny Zoe, who plays in jazz band and gets invited to senior parties and is in line for fucking scholarships is trying to monopolise the only good thing he's got going, the only person who doesn't treat him like the freak he is, and his hypocrisy boils inside him because his own possessiveness is undeniable and to rip on Zoe for the same is an atrocious thing to do, but then so is all of his behaviour lately and maybe he's proving her point that Evan deserves someone better but Connor wants to believe he deserves something good, too.  
  
"I--" Zoe begins, but catches herself, moving as if to leave, "You know what, forget it."  
  
"No, Zoe, say what's on your mind!" he snaps, startling himself with the step he takes forward, and the force of his words.   
  
"Fine!" she hisses back, the low venom reminding Connor of Evan's presence only a few meters away, as they trade insults and claims like he's some inanimate object. She narrows her eyes, and faces him straight on, inhaling deeply before speaking. "He shouldn't be with you. You shouldn't be with him. You're unstable, you're violent, you're fucking dependent on drugs. He needs someone who can actually function without slicing up his arms, because in case you hadn't noticed, he's got severe anxiety and a shitload of his own issues to deal with on top of yours."  
  
For a good minute, he can't breathe. He's been lying on this set of tracks since the beginning, trying to ignore the oncoming train, to block out the sound with sweet delusion that he's actually capable of fulfilling personal relationships, only to now find his body crushed by the deafening force of reality.   
  
Even she seems slightly shocked by the strength of her words, worried eyes following his fingers as they scrape against the lines on his inner forearms, unconsciously. Or maybe the worry is that her words will have tipped him over into red, into that state of dangerous absence of control, which is more likely, but unnecessary, because the rage has compacted itself into something denser and deeper.  
  
"And that someone is you, I'm guessing?" he asks, after a fraught silence.  
  
She shrugs, with hesitant defiance.   
  
"Maybe."  
  
She meets his eye, steadily, as he presses the phone into her hand and tries to keep his voice level.   
  
"But, Zoe, can I ask you: whose bed did he come in his pants on, less than twenty minutes ago?"  
  
The glare holds, wavers and breaks, and she swipes her things off the coffee table before standing, somewhat unsteadily. For a second, it looks like she's going to cry, eyes watering, but before Connor can tell she's rushing out of the room, guilt panging in his gut both from her hurt and his own underhand and totally unacceptable methods to cause it.   
  
Why did he say that? What on this fucking earth made him think that was an okay thing to do?  
  
He's used something so private, something sacred and special in this pointless sibling dispute and Evan, poor, oblivious, Evan, watches from the doorway in confusion, ignorant to all straight from-the-rom-com rivalry, all secrets shared in flashes of envy and fire.  
  
"Hey. Uh...is she okay?" he asks, and Connor's cheeks burn with shame as he tries to find the words to answer, scratching the nape of his neck.   
  
"She's fine." he manages. Evan looks unconvinced.   
  
"What happened?" he presses, moving in to try and take Connor's hand.   
  
"Nothing." he affirms.  
  
He pulls his hand out of reach.   
  
It's something too filthy for Evan to touch.   
  
Evan presses against his side, that evening, as they eat and talk, and the contact makes Connor brim with guilt. He tries to smile, but he feels like he's stretching a mask over the frame of a face.   
  
When they're fitted together, watching the mindlessness of commercials, volume down low, he can't take it any more.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
The words fall out before he can help it; before he can realise that Evan has no idea what he's apologising for.  
  
"What for?" comes the reply.  
  
He thinks about Zoe's face, red with embarrassment and eyes brimming with tears. He thinks about how good it feels, Evan warm against him like he belongs there, like he enjoys being there.   
  
He shakes his head.   
  
"Doesn't matter."  
  
That night, it takes three of Cynthia's pills before he can sleep.


End file.
